


Jm 








WMm 
■ 

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BE. 






A 

' PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY 

INTO 

THE SOURCE 

OF 

THE PLEASURES 

DERIVED FROM 

TRAGIC REPRESENTATIONS 

FROM WHICH IS DEDUCED THE SECRET OF GIVING 

Btamartc StotereSt 

TO 

TRAGEDIES INTENDED FOR THE STAGE. 

PRECEDED BY A 

CRITICAL EXAMINATION 



VARIOUS THEORIES ADOPTED ON THE SUBJECT BY THE 

ENGLISH, FRENCH, AND GERMAN 

PHILOSOPHERS. 



By M. M'DERMOT, 

AUTHOR OF "A CRITICAL DISSERTATION ON THE NATURE 
AND PRINCIPLES OF TASTE," &C. 



Sunt lacrymce reruni, et mentem mortalia tangunt. — Virgil. 



Honfion : 

PRINTED FOR SHERWOOD, JONES, AND CO. 

PATERNOSTER- ROW. 

1824. 



.<*" 



^^ 



D. Sidney & Co. Printers, 
Northumberland Street, Strand. 



% 
TO MISS F. H. KELLY. 



Madam, * 
The object of the Work, to which I have the honour of prefix- 
ing your name, is to ascertain the source of the Pleasures derived 
from Tragic Representations, that branch of the drama in which 
you so eminently excel. Other names, it is true, enjoy a more 
fixed and established reputation than your's, that reputation 
which, when once established, critics dare not venture to molest ; 
but this reputation awaits you, and in the estimation of those 
who judge for themselves, and who need not the slow but certain 
decisions of time to confirm their judgment, you have obtained it 
already. Were I to inscribe this Work to any of those names, I 
could not pretend to exercise any judgment in doing so ; I should 
only travel in the footsteps of the public, and re-echo the praises 
which they have already abundantly enjoyed. By inscribing it to 
you, I exercise a judgment which I am certain will soon be confirm- 
ed by the universal suffrages of the public, and discharge, at the 
same time, that duty which Pope justly imposes upon all writers 
and critics : — 

Be thou the first true merit to befriend, 
His praise is lost who waits till all commend. 

Cold, indeed, must be that public, and indurated to all 
the finer influences, and corresponding feelings of humanity, 



IV DEDICATION. 

which cannot perceive, that , in the character of Juliet, you appear 
Juliet herself, in all her alternations of passion and vicissitudes 
of fortune, not her cold and formal representative. 

But of your delineation of that character I have fully expressed 
my opinion in the concluding part of thia work, and shall, there- 
fore, only add, that if I neglected to avail myself of this oppor- 
tunity of confirming the judgments which I there advanced, and 
of testifying the high opinion which I entertain of your dramatic 
powers, particularly in that branch of the drama which is the 
subject of the following pages, I should feel that I had neglected 
also my duty to the public. 

MARTIN M'DERMOT. 



PREFACE. 



The title page of this Work expresses, as clearly 
as the author could express, and, he believes, as 
clearly as can be expressed, its nature and object. 
What more then has he to say in a preface ? The 
subject wants not to be recommended to those 
who delight in the softer sympathies and affections, 
— the melting strains, and soul-subduing influence 
of the Tragic Muse, — while those to whom nature 
has not deigned to impart those finer feelings and 
susceptibilities of the heart, would look upon all I 
could advance in its favour, as the specious elo- 
quence of an interested author. To such indurated 
stoics I choose not to address myself : let them 
enjoy, if they are capable of enjoyment, the cold 
approbation of that frozen judgment which smiles 
at all that is humane and sympathetic in our 
nature, and who view them as evidences, not of 
our virtues and benevolence, but of our frailties 
and imbecility. I shall not, therefore, endeavour to 
convince my readers, that the subject of the follow- 
ing pages possesses any intrinsic merit in itself, 
it being useless to recommend it to one class of 



VI PREFACE. 

readers, and unnecessary to recommend it to the 
other. But even those to whom . the subject is 
naturally interesting may wish to know the 
merits of its execution before they undergo the 
toil of perusing it. If so, I must confess I see 
no way of enabling them to form a correct judg- 
ment. Were I to maintain, that it possesses very 
great merits, they would only be the more strong- 
ly inclined to suspect it had none ; and were I to 
admit it weak and imperfect, they would readily 
give me credit for the assertion, and come to the 
same conclusion. I can therefore only say, that 
so far as regards my own conviction, the Source 
of the Pleasures, derived from Tragic Represen- 
tations, the means of producing Tragic Interest, 
and the causes that have led to the general failure 
of our modern Tragedies, are more satisfactorily 
accounted for in the following pages than in any 
other work ancient or modern. Whether the 
public, however, shall think as I think, or imagine, 
that in forming this opinion, my judgment has 
been warped by that self-love of which authors 
in particular have so much difficulty of divesting 
themselves, I dare not venture to prophesy. 



CONTENTS. 



CHAPTER I. 

Page. 

Difficulty of the Problem proposed to be resolved. . . 1 

CHAP. II. 

Impossibility of forming an obscure conception of a Primary 
Cause until it be perfectly discovered. Obscure Ideas have 
no existence. . . . . . . . . 9 

CHAP. III. 

Examination of SchlegeVs Theory, and of the various hypo* 
theses which he has quoted on the Source of Tragic Pleasures. 1 9 

CHAP. IV. 

Whether Fable operate on our Passions, by representing its 
events as passing in our sight, and by deluding us into 
a conviction of reality ? And whether this delusion, sup- 
posing it real, accounts for the Pleasures arising from 
Tragic Representations. .. .. ..37 

CHAP. V. 

Whether Tragic Pleasures may be traced to the Vices and 
Inhumanity, or to the Virtues and Sympathies of Human 
Nature. . . . . . . . . . . 45 

CHAP. VI. 

Examination of Mr. Burke and Mr. Knight's Theories. 1 1 1 






Vlil CONTENTS. 

CHAP. VII. 

JVhether Imaginary, produce, at any time, a more powerful 
Impression, than Real, Distress ? and, if so, under what cir- 
cumstances can such an Effect take place ? . . . . 136 

CHAP. VIII. 

All strong Sensations pleasing to those by whom they are felt, 
three instances only excepted. . . .. ..149 

CHAP. IX. 

Emotions and Passions, whatever be their Nature and Cha- 
racter, universally pleasing to those by whom they are felt : 
Objections answered. .. .. .. ..249 

CHAP. X. 

The true Source of the Pleasures derived from Tragic Repre- 
sentations deduced from the two preceding Chapters, The 
secret of giving Dramatic Interest to Tragedies intended for 
Representation. . . . . . . . . 280 



PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY 



INTO THE 



SOURCE OP THE PLEASURES 



DERIVED FROM 



TRAGIC REPRESENTATIONS. 



CHAP. I. 

Difficulty of the Problem proposed to be resolved, 

WHY Tragic Representations should produce 
pleasing emotions in the human breast, or, to state 
the question in other words, why we should delight 
in any thing painful, such as pictures and images of 
distress, is a question that has been proposed and 
investigated by many eminent writers and critics ; 
but their number hardly exceed the diversity of 
opinions which they have advanced on the subject. 
It is certain, however, that there can be only one 
proper answer ; for when any particular object, re- 
presentation, or circumstance, invariably produces 
an impression of a pleasing character, this impres- 
sion must obviously arise from some fixed principle 

B 









1 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

in our nature called into action by the agency 
of this object, representation, or circumstance. 
When, therefore, different causes or principles of ac- 
tion are assigned, they must be all founded in error 
except one. When I except one, I do not mean to 
say, that one must be right, for it is possible that all 
may be wrong ; and it is also possible, that the true 
cause may never be discovered. I mean, therefore, 
merely to say, that there can be only one true cause, 
whether discovered or not ; and that all other causes 
must necessarily be erroneous. It is easy to give 
an ingenious solution of a difficult problem ; but 
though a thousand different solutions may appear 
plausible and specious, it is still not so easy to 
satisfy the mind, that the question is resolved, even 
by the most satisfactory of them, if it be mingled 
with the slightest error. Whatever is partly false 
will generally be found to leave the mind more or 
less unsatisfied, more or less doubtful : it may even 
have many reasons to believe what it is told ; — it 
may perceive none for entertaining a different 
opinion ; but still, from not perceiving its way 
clearly, it feels not that complete gratification 
which results from the discovery and clear percep- 
tion of truth ; for whenever truth bursts through the 
mists of error, it flashes instantaneous conviction 
upon us, and we not only perceive but feel its 
evidence, even though it should admit of no de- 
monstrative certainty. 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 3 

Before I investigate, however, the theories which 
have been adopted by my predecessors on the present 
subject, or offer a new one of my own, may it not 
be asked, whether any real pleasure arises from 
Tragic Representations? Some rigid theologians, 
whom I should be sorry to confound with divines 
of expanded minds, and rational virtue, tell us, that 
it is a pleasure arising from the depravity oP'our 
own nature, and maintain, that, while the heart is 
imbued with the redeeming spirit of sanctity and 
religion, the emotions produced by theatrical re- 
presentation of every description are loathsome 
and offensive to us. To this argument I reply, 
that it rests altogether on an appeal to the feelings 
of a particular class of people ; whereas pleasure 
and pain, being modifications of feeling founded 
in the general nature of man, it is only by con- 
sulting the common feeling of mankind that we can 
unequivocally ascertain what is pleasing or dis- 
pleasing to this general nature ; for, with regard to 
individuals, general laws have no application. 
Every deviation from the general nature of man 
is determined by a particular law of its own ; and 
it accords neither with religion, philosophy, nor 
common sense, to bring forward particular laws in 
accounting for general effects. It will be found 
hereafter, however, that tragic emotions, or tragic 
pleasures, are more nearly allied to virtue than 
moralists are aware of, or, at least, than they seem 

b2 






I PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

willing to believe. At the same time, we cannot be 
surprised, that the pleasure resulting from tragic 
sources should appear mysterious, and be placed 
among the more abstruse phenomena of human 
nature, when we reflect, that in all the pursuits 
of human life, however various and complicated 
they may appear to the torpid eye of slumbering 
intellect, and however endlessly diversified may 
be the causes whence they immediately spring, 
and by which they are influenced and deter- 
mined in their career, the grand cause to which 
they are all subservient, and by which they are 
eternally governed, is the love of present, or the 
hope of future happiness. This original cause 
is made known to us, not by arguments, a priori, 
which are often found to be the mere creatures of 
imagination, but by actual experience, which pre- 
cedes, in its evidence, all theoretical speculations. 
The love of happiness is the universal cause to 
which we must refer all the springs and motives of 
human actions. Its dominion extends over all the 
energies, tendencies, and operations of our sensitive 
and intellectual nature. Those philosophers have, 
therefore, been led into error, who call the love of 
fame, the " Universal Passion ;" for even he who 
seeks to make his name known to all the ends of 
the earth, and to make admiring nations acquaint- 
ed with his physical powers, or intellectual might, 
ha>s no object in view but the real, or, if the reader 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. O 

choose to call it, the imaginary, happiness which 
he enjoys by anticipation at the moment, and 
hopes to realize at some future period. It is true, 
indeed, that we do not all pursue the same road to 
happiness ; but this arises, either from adventitious 
circumstances, which check the original tendency 
of our natural propensities, or because what con- 
stitutes the happiness of one man does not consti- 
tute the happiness of another, even when fortune 
has pandered to all the cravings of unsatisfied 
desire, or submitted to all the caprice of human 
eccentricity. Happiness, however, under one shape 
or other, is the primum mobile of human actions. 
How fame, or the opinion which others entertain of 
our real, or supposed merits, should be productive 
of this happiness, the love of which is the primary 
cause, and the attainment of which is the final object 
of human actions, is a question which belongs not 
to our present investigation. The knowledge of 
the fact is sufficient for all the purposes for which 
it has been mentioned, and the fact cannot be con- 
troverted ; for who would seek after fame unless it 
gave him pleasure, and what is pleasure but hap- 
piness, or one of its modifications ? All our actions, 
then, without exception, originate from this source. 
The miser who abstains from the enjoyment of his 
wealth ; — the soldier who rushes into the field of 
battle, and encounters danger in all its terrific and 
appalling aspects ; — the poet who seeks inspiration 






(> PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

from the dull flame of his midnight lamp, while 
the drowsy influence of the senses obstrusively re- 
mind him that he is not all spirit and intellectual 
flame; — the trader who commits himself to the 
mercy of the winds and waves, and congeals be- 
neath the rigour of contending elements ; — the 
pugilist who exposes his natural limbs and body to 
be broken by hands which seem invigorated by 
nature itself for the commission of ferocious deeds, 
and to Avhose inexorable feelings the associations 
of pity seem to be totally unknown ; — all are urged 
forward by one common motive, — the love of hap- 
piness ; and all are in pursuit of the same object — 
the attainment of that happiness to which they are 
so ardently devoted. 

As the love of happiness, then, is the prime mover 
of human actions ; as we love nothing but what 
tends to promote it, and hate nothing but what 
tends to diminish it ; would we not seem obliged 
by the strictest and most rigid laws of reasoning 
to conclude, that whatever is painful must be hate- 
ful to us, because pain is the opposite to pleasure 
or happiness ? The conclusion, however, is dis- 
proved by the emotions produced in us by Tragic 
Representations ; for all who have felt these emotions 
profess to be pleased with them ; and those who 
have had most opportunities of feeling them, are 
those who delight most in renewing them frequent- 
ly. Will we say, then, that Tragic representations 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 7 

are not painful, and, consequently, that there is 
nothing mysterious in the supposed pleasure we re- 
ceive ? To maintain this position is only to render 
the subject still more mysterious than it is already ; 
for it is a fundamental principle in criticism, that 
the emotions produced in us by imitations of every 
description, are of the same nature and charac- 
ter with the emotions produced by the originals 
from which they are copied. The only difference 
they admit is in the degree, not in the nature, of 
the emotions ;— that is, the emotion produced by 
the object imitated, is stronger than any emotion 
which can be excited by the most perfect imitation 
of it. " Uimpression que ces imitations font sur 
nous, 1 ' says Du Bos, " est du meme genre que Vim- 
pression que Vobjet mime qui a ete imite par le peintre, 
ou par le poete feroit sur nous. Mais comme Vim- 
pression que V imitation fait n'est differente de ^im- 
pression que Vobjet imite feroit quen ce qu'elle 
est moins forte, elle doit exciter dans notre ame, 
une passion qui resemble a celle que Vobjet imite y 
auroitpu exciter" Lord Kaimes maintains the same 
doctrine, in his Elements of Criticism, and so do 
all eminent writers on the imitative arts. 

If, then, all imitations, as poetry, painting, dra- 
matic representations, &c. excite emotions similar 
to those excited by their archetypes in nature, it 
follows, that Tragic representations must excite 
the emotions produced by real calamity and mis- 



8 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

fortune, and such emotions are always found to 
be painful. We cannot see a person in distress 
without being pained at his misery ; and where 
the degree of wretchedness is extreme, some people 
cannot endure to behold its ill-fated victim. The 
sensation which it produces is frequently found to 
overpower a person of weak nerves, or extreme sen- 
sibility. As real distress is, therefore, painful, ima- 
ginary distress must be so also, because the copy 
and the original produce the same effect. The 
difficulty, then, which has perplexed the critics, 
consists in this, that Tragic representations pro- 
duce pleasure and pain at the same moment. It 
is to explain this apparent mystery that so many 
writers have treated on the subject, and attempted 
to resolve this Gordian Knot ; but it will clearly 
appear from the following pages, that the mystery 
still remains, and that this Gordian Knot is as fast 
and complicated as ever. 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 9 



CHAP. II. 



Impossibility of forming an obscure conception of a pri- 
mary Cause until it be perfectly discovered. 
Obscure ideas have no existence. 



When I first reflected on the difficulty of explain- 
ing how the same sensation should be at once 
pleasant and painful, I consulted several works 
on the subject before I discovered that Hume de- 
voted one of his Essays to the resolution of this 
curious phenomenon. Du Bos, Lord Kaimes, Dr. 
Johnson, Dr. Blair, Knight, Lessing, Schlegel, 
Fontenelle, and almost all the writers who have 
attempted to explain it, may be more properly 
considered critics than philosophers ; or, if this 
distinction should appear obscure, as criticism and 
philosophy sometimes glide into each other, they 
were better qualified to distinguish between im- 
pressions, and to point out the " rainbow hues" 
which connect them together, than to trace these 
impressions, and their voluble, impalpable con- 
nectives to their original source. The common 



10 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

observer perceives effects and impressions in the 
gross, but cannot ascertain their momentum, or the 
precise point to which they do, and beyond which 
they cannot extend. This is the business of 
the critic : his duty is to point out where pro- 
priety ends, and where absurdity-begins; and, 
therefore, the true critic never outsteps the mo- 
desty of nature. But the philosopher, not satisfied 
with marking the proper boundaries that distin- 
guish impressions, and their immediate causes 
from each other, seeks to trace each of them dis- 
tinctly to its primary source. 

As the resolution of the present problem be- 
longs to philosophy, and not to criticism, I was 
not much surprised to find the writers whom 
I have now mentioned, in their attempts to 
trace the pleasure resulting from Tragic Repre- 
sentation to its original cause, not only contra- 
dicting each other, but contradicting those first 
truths or principles of reasoning, which are ad- 
mitted by themselves, and by all mankind. He 
who contradicts first truths, however, will fre- 
quently be found to contradict himself, because 
he is continually admitting these truths where they 
serve to support his collateral or incidental argu- 
ments. That this has been the case with the 
writers who have treated on the present subject, 
will manifestly appear from the following pages. In 
detecting their inconsistencies and self-contradic- 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. II 

tions, I observed , that they invariably arose from 
not sufficiently generalizing the cause of the plea- 
sure of which they were in pursuit ; for nothing 
can be more easily demonstrated, than that many 
proximate causes co-operate in producing the 
pleasing emotkms resulting from Tragic Represen- 
tations, which no stretch or torture of reasoning 
can refer to any one of the causes to which these 
writers trace the agreeable effect. As critics, 
they have certainly displayed great ingenuity, 
penetration, and good sense ; but not one of them 
has viewed his object from a sufficiently elevated 
situation to grasp it entirely, and examine it in all 
its parts. From not having sufficiently generalized, 
therefore, the cause of Tragic Pleasure, all they 
have written eventually amounts to nothing. Some 
of them, it is true, travelled farther than others, 
and consequently advanced nearer to their object : 
but he who is within a few paces of the place of 
his destination, is, with regard to his object, in 
the same situation with him who is a thousand 
miles off, if he can proceed no farther. A man of 
seven feet high cannot, without leaping, seize, with 
all his efforts, a ball placed half an inch above 
his reach ; whereas, if he were half an inch taller, 
he could lay his hand upon it with ease. How- 
ever trifling, therefore, half an inch may appear, 
the want of it baffles ail the efforts of this tall man 
to seize the ball : it is as safe from his attempts 



13 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

as from those of a dwarf. It is so in science : the 
philosopher, in tracing effects to causes, and con- 
sequences to premises, should pursue his chain of 
reasoning until he discovers the original cause of 
which he is in pursuit ; and he frequently fails from 
not adding another link to the chain, which might 
have led him to its discovery. Of this cause, there- 
fore, nearly as he approached it, he knows as little 
as the clown who cannot comprehend the second 
link in the chain. However mysterious this cause 
may seem, it would appear simple and obvious to 
the philosopher the moment he discovered it, 
for all truths are obvious to those who perceive 
them ; but, not having discovered it, he does not 
form the remotest idea of its existence, A logical 
reasoner frequently arrives at conclusions, from 
which many incontrovertible truths might be de- 
duced, of which he is totally ignorant, because, 
having his mind constantly fixed on one object, 
he overlooks every conclusion to which his argu- 
ments lead, except those which serve to prove the 
position which he seeks to demonstrate. Of these 
truths he is, consequently, as ignorant as he who 
could never discover the conclusions from which 
they result. Hence it follows, that however nearly 
we may approach the discovery of truth, we can 
form no conception of it, if we can approach it no 
nearer. We may discover, indeed, some of its 
appendages, but the appendages of a thing form 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 13 

no part of its essence. In fact, until a truth be 
perfectly discovered, it is not discovered at all. 
If it should be said, that even he who cannot per- 
ceive the object, or the truth of which he is in 
search, clearly and distinctly, may still have an 
obscure idea of it, and consequently be better ac- 
quainted with it than he who forms no idea of it 
at all, I reply, that it is impossible to form an ob- 
scure idea of any thing : we either see the thing 
clearly, or we have no perception of it. We may, 
indeed, see part of an object clearly, while the rest 
of it is concealed in impenetrable darkness ; but 
here there is no obscurity. Of the part which is 
concealed from us, we form no idea at all ; for, as 
an idea is a mental perception of some thing, how 
can we perceive what is concealed from us ? to say 
that we can, is to say that it is not concealed. We 
may, indeed, figure to ourselves a mental image, 
and call it an image of that part of the object 
which lies concealed ; but is it not obvious, that 
the idea which then exists in our mind, is an idea 
of the image, and not of the concealed object ? nei- 
ther is there any thing obscure in our idea of the 
image, as we cannot create an image without per- 
ceiving it ; for the act of creation is only known to 
us by the act of perception. We cannot pretend, 
however, that this image is an image of the object 
concealed, because this is to maintain, that we 
know what the object is ; in which case, it cannot 



14 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

be concealed. If, then, we do not. know what the 
object is, neither do we know whether the image 
present to our mind be an image of it or not. It 
may, for aught that we know, be as different from it 
as day is from night. There can be no obscurity, 
then, in our idea of that part of an object which 
is concealed from us, because we can form no idea 
of it at all : neither can there be any obscurity in 
our idea of that part of the object which we per- 
ceive, because perception removes all obscurity. 
All, then, that we perceive of the object we per- 
ceive clearly, and the part which we do not per- 
ceive clearly, we do not perceive at all ; for, with 
regard to our perceptions, it has no existence. 
Besides, the part of the object which we perceive 
forms a complete and distinct object in our mind. 
It stands there by itself, for we can trace no ref- 
lation or point of connexion between it and the 
part which is supposed to be concealed. To be 
able to trace such a relation, necessarily implies 
that we know the thing concealed ; for, as we can 
reason only from what we know, it is impossible 
we can perceive relations, either between things of 
which we are ignorant, or between things which 
we know, and things of which we know nothing ; 
for, if there be any quality in the latter similar to 
the former, it is a quality of which we are ignorant, 
simply, because we know nothing of the object in 
which it inheres. To say that we may perceive the 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 15 

quality of an object without perceiving the object 
itself, is to say what no person can understand, as 
our idea of qualities are made known to us by the 
subjects in which they are perceived. Had we 
never seen an extended object, we could never 
form an idea of the quality of extension . As, then, 
the part of the object which we perceive, forms a 
clear and distinct object of itself in our minds, 
we have no right to consider it as part of the 
concealed object, but as a complete object in itself, 
of which complete object we have not an obscure, 
but a clear idea. In nature, indeed, it may form 
only part of an object ; but this is more than we 
can tell, until we extend our perceptions farther, 
and see the part to which it is connected. If we 
can never see this part, neither can we ever pretend 
to say, that such a part exists; and, consequently, 
the part we see is the only part to which we can 
apply the words, clear or obscure, because it is the 
only part of which we can affirm any thing. 

These observations on clear and obscure ideas, 
particularly apply to the writers who have treated 
on the primary cause of Tragic Pleasure. Neither 
of them has discovered the primary cause, and 
consequently neither of them has ever formed 
either a clear or obscure idea of it, because they 
have formed no idea of it at all. They have per- 
ceived, however, many of the proximate or imme- 
diate causes by which this pleasure is produced ; 



16 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

and of these proximate causes they had conse- 
quently clear and distinct perceptions ; but as these 
causes were mere effects resulting from the primary 
cause, they only saw a part of the object of which 
they were in pursuit, and of this part they had 
clear perceptions. Not being able to perceive the 
part which was concealed from them ; it was there- 
fore impossible for them, as I have already shewn, 
to form any idea of it, and, consequently, they 
never dreamt of its existence. The part they saw, 
necessarily stood in their minds for the entire of 
the object of which they were in pursuit, and con- 
sequently each of them substituted that secondary 
cause beyond which he could not travel, for the 
primary cause of which it was merely an effect, 
so that of the primary cause, they consequently 
knew as little as those who had never treated on 
the subject. 

Their failure has, therefore, arisen from confining 
themselves to effects, instead of tracing these ef- 
fects to their primary source. But, as I have already 
observed, the business of a critic is to watch 
effects with a diligent and discriminating eye, not 
to travel up with the philosopher to the primary 
causes of these effects ; and the writers of whom 
I speak have treated this question as critics, not 
as philosophers. 

From Hume, however, I expected a more philo- 
sophic solution of this problem, as he seldom traces 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 17 

any effect to a secondary, where a primary cause 
can be discovered. As a critic, perhaps, he is 
inferior to Du Bos, Dr. Johnson, and Dr. Blair; 
but as a philosopher, however dangerous may be 
the tendency of some of his writings, he is evi- 
dently above them all. I cannot help saying, 
however, that his philosophy has failed him in dis- 
cussing the present subject, and that the source of 
thepleasures resulting from Tragic Representations, 
has hitherto eluded the acumen of criticism, and 
the generalizations of philosophy. Hume has 
added little to what had been already written on 
the subject ; and that little is the worst part of 
his " Essay on Tragedy." 

What he has quoted from Du Bos and Fonte- 
nelle, is worth a thousand of the theories which he 
has adopted himself, but he must be allowed the 
merit of perceiving that their theories approached 
nearer to the truth than any of the rest. They 
are, however, imperfect, as will hereafter appear, 
though they have made so near an approach to 
the truth. As Schlegel, an eminent German 
critic, is the latest writer on dramatic criticism, 
a subject which he has treated at very consider- 
able length ; and, as he has examined and rejected 
the most popular theories on the source of 
Tragic Pleasure, and substituted one of his own, I 
shall first enquire into the philosophy of these 
theories, and of that which he has substituted in 

c 



18 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

their stead. Schlegel is the ablest commentator 
on Shakspeare, as Mr. Hazlett very justly ob- 
serves, in his criticisms on that poet; and it 
would seem, that we owe these criticisms more 
properly to Schlegel himself, than to Mr. Hazlett ; 
for he acknowledges, in his preface, that "some 
little jealousy of the national understanding was 
not without its share in producing the under- 
taking." " We were piqued" (he says) u that it 
should be reserved for a Foreigner to give reasons 
for the faith which we, English, have in Shakspeare ; 
certainly, no writer among ourselves, has shewn 
such enthusiastic admiration of his genius, or the 
same philosophical acuteness in pointing out his 
characteristic excellencies." Such is the critic, 
with whose theory, on the source of Tragic Pleasure, 
I shall commence the following inquiry. After 
examining what he has written on the subject, and 
the various hypotheses which he quotes and rejects, 
I shall offer some observations on the theories which 
have been adopted by other writers. My own 
theory shall follow, in which I shall examine those 
of Du Bos, Fontenelle, and Hume. 



THE SOURCE OP TRAGIC PLEASURE. 19 



CHAP. III. 



Examinatipn of SchlegeVs theory, and of the various hypo- 
theses which he has quoted on the source of Tragic Plea- 
sure. 

Tragic representations, according to Schlegel, 
please us, either from a " feeling of the dignity of 
human nature, excited by the great models ex- 
hibited to us," or from " the trace of a higher 
order of things impressed upon the apparently 
irregular progress of events, and secretly revealed 
in them," or from " both these causes together." 

Now, this is a mere assertion of the learned 
critic, and assertions require to be supported either 
by facts or by proofs. I admit, that bare, unsub- 
stantiated assertions, resting on high authority, are 
considered by many readers, sufficient data for 
reasoning ; but our credulity must range far beyond 
the boundaries of truth, before we can be made to 
believe, that two propositions which contradict each 
other, can both be true at the same moment, on 
whatever authority they may happen to rest. Now, 
if this hypothesis of Schlegel be disproved by him- 
self, or if the arguments he has advanced against 

c 2 



20 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

other theories, be equally conclusive against his 
own, his theory derives no value from his authority; 
for if we admit it, we must reject his principles of 
reasoning-, which, in other words, is rejecting his 
authority. Besides, if we reject his principles, his 
theory can be of no value : when our principles 
are erroneous, the hypotheses we rest upon them, 
are only castles in the air. 

The first theory examined by Schlegel, is that 
which makes Tragic Pleasure arise " from a com- 
parison between the tranquillity of our own situ- 
ation, and the distress to which the victims of 
Tragic Representation are exposed." 

To this theory he objects, that when we are 
warmly interested in a tragedy, we never think of 
ourselves ; and, therefore, we can enter into no 
comparison on the subject. Schlegel did not per- 
ceive, that this argument totally subverts his own 
hypothesis ; for if, while we are warmly interested 
in the tragic pictures of distress which engage our 
attention, we never think of ourselves, and are 
totally engrossed by what passes before us, neither 
can we think of the abstract dignity of human 
nature, nor of the still more abstract providence by 
which the irregular progress of events is directed. 
If our attention to what passes before us, prevent 
us from thinking of ourselves, it must, certainly, 
prevent us from thinking of any thing else. I will 
readily allow, however, that we may wander, for a 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 21 

moment, from the scene before us to other con- 
templations, but the emotions which we feel during* 
these intervals of abstraction from the passing 
scene, are excited by the contemplations which 
engage our attention, and not by what passes on 
the stage, of which we must be perfectly regardless 
during these intellectual reveries ; for the human 
mind is so constituted, that it cannot employ itself 
in the contemplation of two distinct subjects at 
the same moment. 

No doubt, Schlegel himself frequently and insen- 
sibly glided into these reveries; and so, I believe, do 
all philosophic minds ; but we are not all philoso- 
phers ; and I believe the bulk of the audience attend 
only to what passes before them, and seldom revert 
to such abstract meditations as they suggest to a 
contemplative mind. Philosophers frequently.err in 
ascribing their own thoughts and feelings to others ; 
for though the intellectual and sentient faculties 
are originally constituted the same in all men, or, 
at least, differ only in degrees of energy ; it is still 
certain, that particular pursuits and habits will 
insensibly induce peculiarities of thought and 
feeling; and, consequently, that the presence of the 
same object will suggest a different train of ideas 
and associations to people engaged in different pur- 
suits, provided these pursuits require a particular 
application of mind. He who thinks little, will view 
an object just as it presents itself to him, without 



£1 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

reference to any other ; but he who thinks 
much, will view it in reference to those subjects 
of contemplation which generally engage his at- 
tention. If some extraordinary phenomenon be 
presented to a peasant, his attention is wholly 
arrested by the object itself, while a philosopher 
hardly looks upon it, when his imagination 
begins to rove at large over the whole circle of 
nature, to discover something analogous to it, so 
that while his eyes are fixed on the object, his mind 
is, perhaps, traversing the most distant regions 
upon earth ; or, if he find any thing in the object, 
that associates with celestial alliances, the expan- 
sive circle of the heavens becomes the wide theatre 
of his contemplations. 

But do not Tragic Scenes excite innumerable 
feelings and reflections, besides those mentioned 
by Schlegel ? Is not the baseness of human na- 
ture as closely allied to them as its dignity ? And 
does not every new distress render its contrivers 
and abettors as disgraceful as it renders him by 
whom it is endured with fortitude, dignified and 
exalted ? It is certain, then, that the baseness of 
human nature is as closely interwoven in the tex- 
ture of tragedy as its dignity, and, consequently, 
as liable to become the subject of our reflections. 
If it should be said, that the evil characters in a 
tragedy are not those from whom the pleasure is 
derived, I reply, that tragedy cannot exist where 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 23 

perfect innocence and virtue alone are represented. 
Such a representation has no charm, excites no 
sympathy, communicates no pleasure. It is the 
imperfection and frailty, not the perfection and 
dignity, of human nature, that interests us most. 
We perceive, that the perfect man stands in no 
need of our assistance ; and therefore we refuse 
to sympathize with him ; we look upon him as a 
being different from ourselves, a being who claims 
a superiority over us, which we are unwilling to 
allow. Our pride takes the alarm, and spurning 
his society, we seek a communion with kindred 
spirits. Pares cum paribus facile congregantur. 
If we remove, then, all appearance of frailty and 
imperfection from the stage, we shall have no 
tragedy at all. Neither are the traces of a higher 
order of things more strongly impressed on the 
progress of tragic events, than the absence of those 
traces, and the apparent want of this order. We 
can find no trace of a superintending providence 
in many tragedies, as Shakspeare's Romeo and 
Juliet, and Lord Byron's Tragedy of the Two 
Foscari ; and we are therefore apt to infer, that 
no such providence exists. This impression will 
always communicate itself to the mind, when- 
ever a great and virtuous character continues to 
be persecuted to the last, and dies unable to avenge 
his wrongs. 

There are many reflections, then, as obviously 



24 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

suggested by Tragic Scenes, as those assigned by 
Schlegel; and why attribute our satisfaction to 
the one rather than to the other ? 

It will be easy, however, to put these sources of 
Tragic Pleasure to the test ; for if the dignity of 
human nature, and the overruling Providence by 
which human affairs are directed, be the true source 
of this Pleasure, it follows, that the most in- 
teresting tragedy is that in which all the characters 
are dignified, and in which they prove ultimately 
successful ; for it is only in ultimate success we 
can discover the traces of an overruling Providence. 
Such a tragedy, however, so far from being in- 
teresting, would not be tolerated on the stage, as 
nothing could exceed its insipidity. The interest 
which we take in the misfortunes of virtuous 
characters, would become totally extinct, if their 
misfortunes were not brought upon them, either by 
their own folly, or the machinations of evil charac- 
ters ; so that the baseness of human nature is as 
necessary to create interest as its dignity. A critic 
in the " Lounger," objects to the tragedy of " The 
Fair Penitent," that the heroine is very far from 
being an amiable and unexceptionable lady; upon 
which Mr. Knight justly remarks, that " if she 
had been either the one or the other, this critic 
would never have had an opportunity either of 
applauding, or of censuring her, as the play would 
have scarcely survived a first representation, and 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 25 

certainly not have lasted to a second genera- 
tion."* 

Granting*, however, that a feeling of the dignity 
of human nature gives us more particular pleasure 
than any other feelings suggested by tragic scenes, 
it still remains to be accounted for, how this feel- 
ing continues throughout the play to affect the mind, 
if, according to Schlegel himself, the mind can 
attend only to the scene before it, and enter into 
no other reflections. The scene before it frequently 
represents the depravity of human nature, and, 
consequently, excites only feelings of this depravity. 
Perhaps it may be said, that the mind can have 
feelings of the dignity of human nature, and of a 
superintending Providence, without ever withdraw- 
ing its attention from the play, or making either the 
direct object of its reflections. This Schlegel denies, 
and therefore cannot avail himself of such an 
argument ; but, granting for a moment that we 
may have such feelings, it must also be granted, 
that we may have feelings of the calmness and 
serenity of our own situation, contrasted with the 
distresses to which the characters exhibited before us 
are exposed. The fact is, that we can have feelings 
of this contrast, and likewise of the dignity of 
human nature, and of a superintending Providence, 
without ever reflecting on either, or thinking that 
they are the sources whence our feelings are derived. 

* Principles of Taste, page 344-5. 



26 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

A parent will feel the strongest emotions of grief 
for the death of his son, even when his mind is 
drawn away from the loss which he has endured 
to some immediate object of attention ; for a strong 
sensation will not cease the moment the mind is pre- 
vented from attending to it, so that SchlegeFs objec- 
tion to the feelings of contrast is not only inad- 
missible, but, if admitted, is as applicable to, and 
consequently as subversive of, his own theory, as of 
that which he has rejected. It is certain, however, 
that neither of these theories is sufficiently general, 
and that there are innumerable feelings of a pleas- 
ing character excited by Tragic Representations, 
which can be traced to neither of them. 

Perhaps it may be contended, that however dif- 
ferent the proximate causes of Tragic Pleasure 
may be, in appearance, they may be all traced 
ultimately to the " dignity of human nature." To 
disprove this assertion, we need only try it by the 
test of experience. Wherever experience can be 
resorted to, it precedes in its evidence all theore- 
tical reasoning. The reluctance of lovers to part 
is finely and sorrowfully depicted in the following 
interesting scene between Romeo and Juliet. But 
surely no critic will pretend to trace any effect 
resulting from this scene to " the dignity of human 
nature," as no scene can give a finer illustration 
of human weakness, and the delusions to which 
it is exposed by passion, and its ideal associations. 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 27 

Jul. Wilt thou be gone > it is not yet near day : 
It was the nightingale, and not the lark, 
That pierced the fearful hollow of thine ear - } 
Nightly she sings on yon pomgranate tree : 
Believe me, love, it was the nightingale. 

Rom. It was the lark, the herald of the morn, 

No nightingale : look, love, what envious streaks 
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east : 
Night's candles are burned out, and jocund day 
Stands tip-toe on the misty mountain tops. 
I must be gone and live, or stay and die. 

Jul Yon light is not the day, I know it, I : 
It is some meteor that the sun exhales, 
To be to thee this night a torch bearer, 
And light thee on thy way to Mantua : 
Therefore stay yet, thou need'st not to be gone. 

Rom. Let me be ta'en, let me be put to death ; 
I am content, so thou wilt have it so. 
I'll say yon gray is not the morning's eye, 
'Tis but the pale reflex of Cinthia's brow ; 
Nor that is not the lark, whose notes do beat 
The vaulty heavens so high above our heads : 
I have more care to stay, than will to go ; 
Come death, and welcome ! Juliet wills it so.— 
How is't, my soul ? let's talk, it is not day. 

It is impossible to read these lines without feel- 
ing a mournful, pensive, melancholy pleasure ; but, 
as I have already observed, it is a pleasure that 
owes no part of its existence to a sense or feeling 
of the dignity of human nature. 

The same may be said of Romeo's last speech 



28 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

over Juliet in the tomb. The consequence, there- 
fore, of referring the pleasure resulting from 
Tragic Representations to partial causes would be, 
that a thousand theories might be adopted on the 
subject, each of them equally true, and each 
equally erroneous. They would be equally true, 
so far as they reached, as there is no doubt but we 
are sometimes affected by the dignity of an exalted 
character, sometime by a secret feeling, or sense 
of the Providence which directs the progress of 
human affairs, and sometimes by contrasting our 
own situation with that of the characters ; but 
then, there is as little doubt of our being affected by 
a thousand other causes, each of which might, ac- 
cording to this mode of philosophising, be made 
the foundation of a separate theory. We might 
read over these thousand theories, however, and be 
as wise at the end as at the beginning ; for it is 
obvious, that they would be all equally erroneous, 
in making one of the causes by which we are 
affected, the sole and only cause of all the emotions 
and feelings which we experience during the per- 
formance, as a thousand other causes combine to 
produce the general effect, or, more properly, as 
each particular emotion has a particular cause of 
its own. To make either of these emotions the 
sole cause, or foundation of* our pleasures, would 
be just as consistent, as to maintain, that any 
particular part of a watch, is that which causes 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 29 

the regularity of its movements, and not the whole 
assemblage of parts, or the manner in which these 
parts are contrived and adjusted to each other. 

It argues, therefore, little of the philosophic 
spirit, to maintain, that because we are at one 
time moved by the dignity of human nature 
which is displayed in one character, we are not at 
all moved by the baseness of human nature dis- 
played in another ; and that the first emotion is 
that which continues throughout the play. 

The fact is the direct contrary ; for common 
experience teaches us, that our feelings are always 
determined by the feelings of the characters who 
are represented on the stage, or, more philosophi- 
cally speaking, by the feelings and emotions by 
which we suppose them influenced at the moment ; 
and as their feelings are always governed by the 
influence which the circumstances in which they are 
placed, exercise over their respective tempers and 
habits, our feelings are consequently determined 
by the same causes. Circumstances, however, are 
continually changing, and every change produces 
new feelings in the actors, and, consequently, 
in us; for the moment we imagine any new 
feeling has taken possession of them, it makes 
a new impression (which is only another name 
for a new feeling) upon us. Our feelings then 
are continually changing, simply because the 
circumstances by which they are produced are 



'30 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

continually changing; and therefore, the number 
of proximate causes from which they originate, 
are equal to, and neither more nor less than, the 
number of circumstances, or change of circum- 
stances, which are introduced into the play. 

Pleasing emotions may be excited by an infinite 
number of causes ; or, if they be finite, it is a fini- 
tude whose bounds are too ample for the still more 
finite career of human contemplation, — I mean 
that contemplation which confines itself within 
the limits of moral certainty. But, though the 
causes which produce pleasing emotions, are thus 
infinitely, or finitely diversified ; it is still certain, 
that each distinct emotion requires a distinct or 
separate cause to produce it. If I look upon a 
dove, the emotion which I feel, is a distinct, indi- 
vidual, indivisible, though pleasing sensation, which 
no other being, or external object, can excite in 
me but the dove itself; and, therefore, this indivi- 
dual sensation must be ascribed to the dove alone, 
as its productive cause. If I look immediately 
after on a rose, the emotion which I feel is dif- 
ferent and distinct from the former ; but not more 
different, however, than the cause by which it is 
produced. If, while I am intent upon the rose, 
I happen to hear the sound of a violin, the emotion 
it produces, is clearly distinct from either of the 
former, but so also is the cause. Emotions, then, 
continually vary with their causes : each distinct 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 31 

emotion has a different cause of its own, and each 
cause is sure of producing that emotion which is 
peculiar to itself. No two causes, different in their 
nature, will produce the same individual emotion, 
nor will any two different emotions proceed from 
the same individual cause. To these positions only- 
one exception can be made, namely, where the same 
cause acts upon individuals, whose susceptibilities 
of feeling and natural propensities are originally 
different. In such a case, the emotion felt by each 
is different, but it differs not in kind, but in degree. 
Though two different causes, however, will never 
produce the same emotion in different individuals, 
yet the emotion produced by a thousand different 
causes, may agree in one common quality, namely, 
that of being pleasing or agreeable. The emotions 
produced by the dove, the rose, and the violin, 
were all different, and yet all were pleasing. It is 
obvious, then, that where a succession of pleasing 
emotions is felt, their proximate causes are as dif- 
ferent, and as numerous, as the emotions themselves; 
and that the philosopher who would ascribe the 
aggregate of pleasure which he has received, to any 
of theie causes in particular, would fall into the 
grossest error. No error, however, has tended to 
bewilder the philosophy of the human mind more 
than that of ascribing general effects to particular 
causes. A pleasing emotion cannot express an 
emotion of a distinct individual nature, for the 



32 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

epithet pleasing, neither defines nor explains the 
specific nature of the emotion to which it is applied ; 
and, therefore, he who would define any immediate 
feeling- of which he was sensible at the moment, by 
calling it pleasing, would convey no particular idea 
whatever to his hearers, as ten thousand other 
feelings, perfectly different from it, are equally 
entitled to the same epithet. This epithet is ap- 
plicable to all emotions, however different in their 
nature, and in the causes by which they are pro- 
duced, provided they are neither painful nor indif- 
ferent. All, then, that can be understood from a 
man who tells us that he feels a pleasing emotion, 
is, that he feels an emotion which is neither pain- 
ful nor indifferent to him ; but with regard to its 
distinct character, the modification or degree of 
pleasure which it imparts, the particular manner 
in which it is felt, or the immediate cause by which 
it is produced, we know literally nothing. 

To apply these observations to the pleasures 
that emanate from Tragic Representations, it is 
obvious, that we are sensible of a diversity of 
pleasing emotions during the progress of a good 
Tragedy ; that every change of circumstance and 
situation in the Dramatis Personce, in a word, 
every sentiment, expressed from beginning to end, 
produces a new impression upon us, that each new 
impression has a distinct cause of its own, that 
no one of these causes is the cause of all the other 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 33 

impressions, or feelings which we experience, that 
the entire of the pleasure which we receive, is, in 
other words, only the entire of the feelings, by 
which we are successively affected ; that as these 
feelings originate from different causes, so must 
the pleasure also ; and that, consequently, he who 
would attribute them all to one cause, must look 
not to any of the particular causes by which they 
are produced, but to that remote, original cause, 
to which all the particular causes are subordinate. 
It is obvious, then, that SchlegeFs theory, and 
that which makes Tragic Pleasure arise from ee a 
comparison between the calmness and tranquillity 
of our own situation, and the storms and perplex- 
ities to which the victims of passion are exposed," 
stand both on the same light and airy foundation. 
It is certain, indeed, that we can derive no pleasure 
from Tragic Scenes, unless we be ourselves free from 
all personal danger ; but it does not follow, that 
this freedom is the cause of the agreeable effect. If 
such a conclusion were admitted, it would follow, 
by a parity of reasoning, that our being awake at 
the time, is the cause of the pleasure ; for there is 
no difference between the argument of the man who 
says, " as we can derive no pleasure from Tragic 
Scenes, without being free from personal danger, 
ergo, a freedom from personal danger, is tiie cause 
of the pleasure we enjoy;" and the argument of 
him who says, " as we can derive no pleasure from 

D 



34 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

Tragic Distress, without being awake, ergo, our 
being awake, must, necessarily, be the cause from 
which it results." By a similar mode of reasoning, 
we might trace the pleasure to a thousand dif- 
ferent causes ; but such unphilosophic modes of 
reasoning are unworthy of serious refutation. 

The next theory which Schlegel discusses, is 
that which attributes it " to our feeling for moral 
improvement, which is gratified by the view of 
poetical justice, in the reward of the good, and the 
punishment of the wicked." To this theory he 
objects, that " poetical justice is by no means indis- 
pensable in a good tragedy : it may end with the 
suffering of the just, and the triumph of the 
wicked." The objection is just, but who would 
expect it to come from Schlegel. Indeed no ob- 
jection shews more clearly, how blind we are to 
our own errors, and how clear-sighted in detecting 
the errors of others. He attributes a portion of the 
pleasure to " the trace of a higher order of things," 
and yet surely this trace cannot exist without 
poetical justice. Poetical justice, then, is neces- 
sary to support his theory, but it may be dispensed 
with when it serves to support the theory of ano- 
ther. The argument, however, though it subverts 
his own theory, proves the insufficiency of the 
hypothesis against which it is directed. Besides, 
the arguments which I have opposed to the two 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 35 

former theories, are equally applicable to the pre- 
sent. 

Aristotle's theory comes next in order, and is 
considered by Schlegel still more unsatisfactory 
than the former. We must say, however, that in 
uoting it, he does the Stagyrite injustice, for he 
never intended it as explanatory of the source of 
Tragic Pleasure. " The object of tragedy," says 
Aristotle, " is to purify the passions by pity and 
terror." But the object of tragedy is surely dif- 
ferent from the origin of the pleasure which it im- 
parts, for tragedy and its attendant pleasures are 
different in themselves ; and, even if they were 
not, the object of a thing should never be con- 
founded with its origin. 

Whether the purification of the passions by pity 
and terror, be the proper and exclusive object of 
tragedy, is a question of a different nature ; and, 
therefore, Schlegel superfluously observes, that, 
" supposing tragedy to effect this moral cure in us, 
it must do so by the painful feelings of terror and 
compassion, and it remains to be proved, how we 
should take a pleasure in subjecting ourselves to 
such an operation." Aristotle has not proposed 
to prove it, nor has he made the remotest allusion 
either to the existence or origin of the pleasure 
under consideration. 

Schlegel comes next to examine the theory of 
Du Bos, who says that, "we are attracted to 

d2 



36 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

theatrical representations from the want of some 
violent agitation, to rouse us out of the torpor 
of every-day life." Du Bos would seem to have 
borrowed this idea from Montagne, but as I intend 
to treat of his theory more at large in another 
place, I shall take no further notice of it here. 

These are all the theories on the source of Tragic 
pleasure, treated of by Schlegel, in his " Lectures 
on Dramatic Criticism." As their insufficiency to 
account for this pleasure must appear sufficiently 
obvious from the preceding observations, I shall 
pass on, without further comment, to the other 
hypotheses adopted on the subject. 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 37 



CHAP. IV. 



Whether Fable operates on our Passions, by representing its 
events as passing in our sight, and by deluding us into 
a conviction of reality f And, whether this delusion, 
supposing it real, accounts for the Pleasures arising 
from Tragic Representations. 



Lord Kaimes treats at great length on the nature 
of our emotions and passions, and devotes a long 
section of seventeen pages to the emotions caused 
by fiction. This subject seems to have puzzled 
him considerably ; and, in excuse for the profusion 
of argument which he has employed upon the oc- 
casion, and which, he acknowledges himself, " must 
have fatigued the reader with much dry reasoning," 
he tells him, that " his labour will not be fruitless, 
because, from that theory are derived many useful 
rules in Criticism/' Unhappily, however, he has 
not said a word in this long section, but what is con- 
tained in one sentence of a previous section of the 
same work, where he says, that "ideas, both of me- 
mory and of speech, produce emotions of the same 



38 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

kind with what are produced by an immediate view 
of the object, only fainter, in proportion as an idea 
is fainter than an original perception." This sen- 
tence contains every thing to be found in all he 
has written, on the emotions caused by fiction ; 
for, throughout this section, he only seeks to shew, 
" that ideal presence supplies the want of real pre 
sence." It is a knowledge of this truth," he says, 
"that unfolds the mystery hanging about the for- 
mer proposition, and shews why ideas of memory, 
&c. produce emotions of the same kind with what 
are produced by an immediate view of the object." 
For my part, I cannot distinguish between " ideas 
of memory," and " ideal presence," and I am cer- 
tain no other person can, except he who makes 
distinctions where there are none in nature. An 
idea of memory is an image which the mind forms 
of an absent object ; — ideal presence is the same : 
how, then, can the latter explain the mystery of 
the former, as both must be equally mysterious ? 
To say that one explains the mystery of the other, 
is to say neither more nor less, than that it explains 
its own mystery. Such language is certainly more 
mysterious than the things which it pretends to 
explain. But the mystery does not end here: 
what follows is infinitely more mysterious, if, in- 
deed, we can allow one thing to be more myste- 
rious than another. The sole object of this section is 
to shew, that "ideal presence," that is, the image 



THB SOURCE OF TRACIC PLEASURE. 39 

which we form to ourselves of something not pre 
sent, produces the same emotion that the real object 
would if it were present ; and this, he tells us, 
explains why fictions produce the same emotions 
with real objects. Here we have again a reason 
without any reason, and one mystery explaining 
another. 

That ideal presence produces, if not the same 
effect with real presence, at least a copy of that 
effect, I readily admit ; — that fictitious objects do 
the same I admit also : how either effect takes 
place I cannot tell ; — all I know is the fact, and 
the fact is as clear in the one case as in the other. 
As the former effect stands, therefore, as much in 
need of explanation as the latter, how can we 
be told, that the one explains the other, when 
both are equally mysterious? we know both pro- 
positions to be true from experience ; and, con- 
sequently, it requires no arguments to convince 
us that both these causes are followed by both 
these effects; but he who would undertake to 
explain to us how the effects proceed from the 
causes, would, instead of explaining one by the 
other, find it equally necessary to explain both, 
simply because both these causes, so far as regards 
the impressions they make upon us, are exactly 
the same. There is no difference between the 
emotions caused by images which we form to our- 
selves of real objects when absent, and those 



40 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

caused by imaginary ones, because the objects in 
neither case are present to the mind. The mind, 
consequently, is totally engrossed in the contem- 
plation of the image before it, and cannot attend 
to any abstract reflections on the original ; and 
even if it did, it is obvious that the image, in 
both cases, receives its existence from the mind ; 
for a real object can make no impression when 
it is not present; and, therefore, the image 
which the mind forms of it must be of its own 
creation. It is the same faculty of the mind that 
gives existence to all things whose prototypes are 
not present, and, consequently, all these images 
must be feigned or fashioned by the mind itself; 
so that, as far as regards the mind, ideal presence, 
or ideal images, are literally the same with ficti- 
tious or imaginary images, all being equally feigned 
or imagined by the mind. This truth is acknow- 
ledged in the very section of which I am now 
treating, for the author observes, that " if ideal 
presence be the means by which our passions are 
moved, it makes no difference whether the subject 
be a fable, or a true history ;" and yet we are 
told in the sentence before this, that " ideal pre- 
sence hath scarce ever been touched by any writer, 
and, however difficult in the explication, it could 
not be avoided in accounting for the effects pro- 
duced by fiction." Had Lord Kaimes reflected a 
moment, he would have perceived, that it is im- 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 41 

possible to treat of fiction without treating of ideal 
presence, as all fiction is ideal presence in the 
strictest sense of the expression. Consequently, 
Du Bos, and all writers on the subject of fiction, 
have treated of ideal presence, differing only in the 
use of the term. Except where the objects imitated 
are present, what are all paintings, descriptive 
poems, and imitations of every description, no 
matter whether of real or imaginary beings, but 
ideal images, or, in other words, portraits of those 
images which were present to the mind of the poet, 
painter, &c. at the time he produced them ; and 
what is all this but ideal presence ? With regard 
to the difficulty of explaining ideal presence, I can- 
not perceive to what difficulty his lordship alludes, 
for the entire of what he says on the subject amounts 
simply to this, that ideal and real presence produce 
similar emotions in the mind, differing only in 
degree ; but why they do produce similar emotions 
he never pretends to explain. There could be no 
difficulty then in mentioning a fact which almost 
every one knows, and which so many writers have 
mentioned already. The entire of this section re* 
minds me of what Dr. Johnson says, in his Ram- 
bler, of those who suffer their imagination to run 
away with their understanding. " Many," he says, 
" impose upon the world, and many upon them- 
selves, by an appearance of severe and exemplary 
diligence, when they, in reality, give themselves up 



42 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

to the luxury of fancy." Lord Kaimes imagines 
he has discovered something which no man ever 
dreamt of before himself, simply because he in- 
vented a new name to express an old idea ; for 
" ideal presence" means nothing but what is gene- 
rally understood by ideal images, both being present 
images of absent objects. To explain, therefore, 
ideal images by ideal presence, is to explain one 
mystery by another. I do not mean to say, that 
either is mysterious, mystery being only a term 
which we apply to things which we do not under- 
stand; but the moment we come to understand 
them, we no longer call them mysteries ; and even 
at the moment they are mysteries to us, they are 
obvious perceptions to others. What are nowso plain 
as to be called truisms, would be all mysteries if we 
were still in the state of nature ; and what are at 
this moment mysteries to the unlettered part of 
mankind, are truisms to the literary world. It is 
not things that are mysterious, but we that are 
ignorant. I do not mean, therefore, to assert, that 
either ideal images or ideal presence are mysterious : 
I only mean to say, that both are the same, and, 
consequently, that he who regards one of them as 
mysterious, should look upon the other as a mystery 
also. 

Granting, however, that the doctrine of " ideal 
presence" explains what it pretends to explain, the 
pleasure resulting from Tragic Representations 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. . 43 

remain still as mysterious as ever. To say that 
fiction pleases us, because the reality pleases us, 
explains nothing, for the question still remains, 
why does the reality please ? Until we are told 
why real distress pleases, why we take pleasure in 
witnessing a shipwreck, an execution, &c. we gain 
little by knowing that the imitation of these dis- 
tresses pleases us because their originals do. 

Besides, it should be recollected, that no person 
derives pleasure from supposing Tragic Represen- 
tations to be real, simply because every one knows 
they are not real : all we expect from such repre- 
sentations, is, that they give a correct and natural 
imitation of the passions, circumstances, and events 
which they represent; for, however exact the imita- 
tion may be, we still know it is but an imitation. 
Lord Kaimes, therefore, leaves the question where 
he found it, so that we must seek elsewhere for the 
source of the pleasures of which we are in pursuit. 

As he claims, however, the merit of originality 
in all that he has written on this subject, it is but 
doing justice to Locke and Du Bos to say, that 
the whole of it is taken from them. Locke dis- 
tinctly observes, that an idea of reflection, or 
memory, produces the same impression upon the 
mind with the real object which it represents to 
itself, with this difference, that the latter im- 
pression is fainter than the former ; and Du Bos 
has the same doctrine in other words, " La copie 



44 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

de robjet" he says, " doit, pour ainsi dire, exciter 
en nous une copie de la passion que robjet y auroit 
excitee? To this doctrine Lord Kaimes has not 
added a single idea, though he wishes to make us 
believe that his doctrine is all his own, because he 
has expressed this idea in other words. Neither is 
he very accurate in saying that an " idea is fainter 
than an original perception," for this is saying, in 
other words, that an idea is fainter than an idea, as 
perception is an idea in the strict and original ac- 
ceptation of the term, coming from the Greek verb 
i Jew, to see. It therefore more properly expresses 
an original perception than a reflex act of the 
mind ; but, as it is used to express both, we na- 
turally divide ideas into two branches, namely, 
ideas of sensation, and ideas of reflection. He 
should therefore have said that an idea of reflec- 
tion, or of memory, is fainter than an idea of sen- 
sation or actual presence. 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 45 



CHAP. V 



Whether Tragic Pleasures may be traced to the Vices 
and Inhumanity, or to the Virtues and Sympathies, of 
Human Nature. 



The doctrine of Helvetius, on the source of Tragic 
Pleasure, is not very " refreshing'' It holds out a 
gloomy prospect of our original nature, and, conse- 
quently, of our final destination. Man, according 
to him, is naturally cruel. " What does the pros- 
pect of nature," he says, cc present to us ? A mul- 
titude of beings destined tq devour each other. 
Man, in particular, say the anatomists, has the 
tooth of a carnivorous animal. He ought, there- 
fore, to be voracious, and, consequently, cruel and 
bloody. Flesh, moreover, is his most wholesome 
nourishment, and the most conformable to his or- 
ganization. His preservation, like that of almost 
all other animals, is connected with the destruction 
of others." 

" If the stag at. bay affect me ; — if his tears ex- 
cite mine, this object, so affecting by its novelty, 



46 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

is agreeable to the savage, whom habit has ren- 
dered obdurate. 

" Let me not be accused of denying the exis- 
tence of good men. I know there are such, who 
tenderly sympathize in the miseries of their fellow 
creatures ; but the humanity of these is the effect 
of their education, not their nature. Had these 
men been born among the Iroquois, they would 
have adopted their barbarous customs. 

" Who is, in all society, the man most detest- 
able ? The man of nature, who having no conven- 
tion with his fellows, obeys nothing but his ca- 
price, and the present sentiment with which he is 
possessed. 

"We see children enclose chafers and hornbeetles 
in hot wax, then dress them up like soldiers, and 
thus prolong their misery for two or three months. 
It is vain to say, that these children do not reflect 
upon the pain those insects feel. If the sentiment 
of compassion was as natural to them as that of 
fear, they would be sensible of the sufferings of the 
insect, in the same manner as fear makes them 
sensible of danger from a ferocious animal." 

Such are the views which Helvetius takes of 
human nature ; whence he concludes, that the 
delight we take in executions, Tragic Represen- 
tations, &c. arise from our propensity to cruelty. 
He argues, that curiosity can have no share in 
producing this pleasure, from our propensity to 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 47 

renew it. Curiosity, he admits, may account for 
our witnessing an execution the first time, but he 
denies that it will account for our witnessing it a 
second. 

I should hardly have quoted Helvetius* theory 
on the cause of Tragic Pleasure, were it not, that 
it gives me an opportunity of vindicating human 
nature from the aspersions of so gloomy and ill- 
boding a moralist. If, therefore, it should lead me 
into a short digression from the direct object of 
discussion, the importance of the subject is the 
only excuse which I can offer the reader. 

Man, he says, ought to be cruel and bloody, be- 
cause nature has given him the tooth of a carni- 
verous animal. This is obviously to maintain, 
that man is born with a natural propensity to 
bloodshed and cruelty, that he possesses this pro- 
pensity in his cradle, antecedent to education, and 
the influence of circumstances ; and, consequently, 
that neither education nor circumstances have any 
share whatever in its production, nor in the pro- 
duction of the teeth which fits him so admirably 
to indulge it. Neither man, nor any other ani- 
mal, however, can be born with and without na- 
tural propensities, at the same time ; and, there- 
fore, he who asserts, that nature has given him a 
propensity for cruelty, denies that he is born with- 
out natural propensities. Helvetius, consequently, 
must deny it ; and yet the sole object of his 



48 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

Essay on Man, the work from which I have made 
these extracts, is to shew the necessity of a good 
education, by proving, that man is born without 
any natural propensities whatever, that he is solely 
the creature of circumstances and education, and 
that, of himself, he is neither inclined to good or 
evil, to vice or virtue. " No individual," he says, 
" is born good or bad, men are the one or the other, 
according as a similar or opposite interest unites 
or divides them. At the moment the child is deli- 
vered from the womb of its mother, and opens the 
gates of life, he enters it without ideas and with- 
out passions." In a word, he sets out with this 
principle, that "the talents and virtues of each 
individual is the effect of education, and not of 
organization." As education, then, has nothing 
to do with the organization of the teeth, and as all 
propensities must be traced to education, and ad- 
ventitious circumstances, Helvetius flatly contra- 
dicts himself, and subverts his whole theory, by 
concluding, from this organization, that man is 
born with a natural propensity for cruelty ; for, 
this is to admit, that we have propensities that can 
be traced to nature alone, and over which educa- 
tion can exercise no controul. 

That " the stag at bay is agreeable to the savage 
whom habit has rendered obdurate," I admit ; but 
this does not prove an original propensity to cru- 
elty. What is caused by "habit" cannot be traced 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 49 

to nature; on the contrary, the "obduracy" that 
arises from "habit" cannot be born with us, be- 
cause, natural propensities manifest themselves 
without any assistance from habit. Habit may 
ultimately eradicate, but can never create, natural 
propensities, and what it substitutes in their stead, 
cannot, consequently, be referred to our original 
constitution, or natural propensities. 

" The humanity of good men," he observes, "is 
the effect of their education, not their nature." I 
deny the assertion. Education can never succeed 
in establishing doctrines, or creating passions, that 
are not antecedently natural to us. Neither the 
worst system of education, nor the most supersti- 
tious religion, can entirely extinguish the moral 
sense within us, — that sense of which Helvetius 
says, he has " no more idea than of a moral castle 
or elephant." I am aware it is possible to obscure 
our ideas of right and wrong, to throw an atmos- 
phere of intellectual darkness over the native per- 
spicuity of the mind, to cloud the prospects which 
allure us forward, and gleam with the virgin dawn 
of mental illumination, to silence the still voice 
which whispers to us that we are intended to move 
in a higher sphere, and to enchain the energies 
which prompt us to attain it. But even in this 
state, it is impossible to extinguish entirely the 
moral sense, to make us believe that malignity, 
falsehood, despotism, treachery, perfidy, robbery, 



50 PHILOSOPHICAL ENQUIRY INTO 

and assassination are virtues of the highest order, 
and fidelity, philanthropy, honesty, and truth, vices 
of the blackest dye. No education, I say, can suc- 
ceed in convincing us of the truth of this doctrine, 
which would not be the case, if we had no feelings 
of humanity, none of right and wrong, antecedent 
to education. The mind runs readily along the 
path which is natural and agreeable to its original 
constitution, but whenever it is driven out of it, it 
feels itself also out of its native element, and has a 
constant tendency to revert to the path from which 
it has been diverted. Hence it is, that while all 
good men, without exception, whether learned or 
ignorant, feel they are right in preferring virtue to 
vice, and truth to falsehood, not one out of a thou- 
sand bad men feels he is right in renouncing virtue, 
and devoting himself to the pursuits of iniquity. 
In a word, all mankind, for the exceptions are not 
worth taking into consideration, admit the base- 
ness of vice, and the dignity of virtue, and so they 
have done from time immemorial. Now, if it be 
education that taught them this doctrine origi- 
nally, I should wish to know from whom they re- 
ceived this education ? No person, I suppose, will 
deny that it was instituted by themselves, and con- 
sequently the precepts they originally taught must 
have been those which were most agreeable to their 
natural feelings and ideas. Education, conse- 
quently, could never have transmitted to us the 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 5l 

doctrine, that virtue is preferable to vice, and hu- 
manity to barbarity, if humanity and virtue were 
not originally, and antecedent to all education, 
more natural to us than vice and cruelty. Instead, 
therefore, of saying with Helvetius, that the huma- 
nity and virtues of good men are the effects of 
education, we should rather say, that the educa- 
tion which inculcates and approves of these vir- 
tuous affections of the soul, is the effect of that 
original humanity, and propensity to virtue, which 
Nature originally implanted in the breast of man. 
The fact is, that Helvetius is eternally at variance 
with himself on this subject. In talking of the 
cruelty of children to insects, he says, " if the 
sentiment of compassion was as natural to them 
as fear, &c." Without prolonging quotations, I 
shall only observe, that if the sentiment of com- 
passion be not as natural to us as that of fear, it 
follows, that some sentiments are more natural to 
us than others; and if so, all that Helvetius has writ- 
ten upon man, and upon the human mind, is not 
worth a rush, because both works are founded on 
the principle, that all our feelings, sentiments, pas- 
sions, notions, ideas, &c. are acquired, that they 
result from education, and that nature has no share 
in their production. According to this doctrine, 
it is obvious, that one feeling or passion cannot be 
more natural than another, as all of them arise, not 
from nature, but from education and acciden- 

e2 



52 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

tal circumstances. When Helvetius asserts, that 
the sentiment of fear is more natural than that of 
compassion, he admits, that there are natural as well 
as acquired sentiments, and consequently he proves, 
that while he was writing his " Essay on Man" he 
was only building castles in the air, his whole 
theory being founded on the opposite doctrine. 

Helvetius, then, has failed in proving the natural 
cruelty of man, and if he even could prove it, he 
would prove, at the same time, that his theoiy of 
man was all founded in error, as it entirely rests 
on the exclusion of all natural passions and pro- 
pensities. The pleasures arising from Tragic Repre- 
sentations, executions, &c, cannot, therefore, arise 
from our natural love of cruelty. Of this, if we 
have still any remaining doubt, the following reflec- 
tion must serve to convince us. The reflection I 
am going to make is one that must derive addi- 
tional value from the opportunity which every per- 
son has of proving its truth. Does not every person 
feel within himself, that however much he may be 
pleased in beholding an execution, or any other 
scene of affliction, he would be infinitely more de- 
lighted at being able to rescue the victim of distress 
from his sufferings, or from the danger to which 
he is immediately exposed ? Who feels the most 
exquisite happiness, he who saves a drowning man 
at the risk of his own life, or he who, by pushing 
him back into the fatal element, puts an end to 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 53 

his existence ? It requires not the genius of a 
Helvetius to answer this question. Every one 
knows that whilst the former enjoys the most heart- 
felt satisfaction, the latter is torn with remorse, and 
the pangs of a guilty conscience, if he retain any 
thing of human nature in him ; and if not, he is no 
man, and the philosophy of human nature is not 
applicable to him. 

I dare do all that may become a man : 
Who dares do more is none. 

Here, then, we have a demonstrative certainty, 
that man, so far from being naturally cruel, is na- 
turally a de tester, an abominator of cruelty ; and 
that so far from approving of it in others, he can- 
not reflect upon any cruel act of his own without 
self-reprobation, and the stings of a guilty con- 
science. These are stings which he could never 
feel, if cruelty were as natural to him as compas 
sion. Will it be said that these stings of conscience 
arise from education, — from his being taught that 
cruelty is a sin, and compassion a virtue ? If so, 
an opposite education would necessarily produce an 
opposite effect, so that if he were taught to believe, 
that compassion is a sin, and cruelty a virtue, he 
would feel the same pangs of conscience, whenever 
he saved a man from death, or any other good act 
which education taught him to be a crime. 

Now, if any instance could be produced of a man 
suffering under the stings of conscience for saving 



54 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

a man's life, or doing any other good and virtuous 
act, I should not hesitate to acknowledge the force 
of education, and the absurdity of believing in any 
original, natural propensities ; but as these are 
stings of conscience which I never heard of, which 
I never read of, and which I believe no person ever 
felt, I am necessarily driven to conclude, whether I 
will or will not, that compassion and virtuous pro- 
pensities are agreeable to the original nature of 
man, and that no man ever was tormented by remorse 
of conscience for having yielded to them. While I 
hold this doctrine, I am equally driven to believe, 
that cruelty and vice are abhorrent from the nature 
of man, and that he who has so completely extin- 
guished every opposite principle as to delight in 
them, and hate every man to whom they are dear, 
is not a man, but a monster. 

If virtue and compassion, then, be natural to 
man, Helvetius' theory on the source of the delight 
which we derive from Tragic Representations, must 
necessarily fall to the ground. It is not only more 
superficial than any of the other theories which I 
have already examined, but the principles on which 
it is founded are impious and detestable. 

From Helvetius we naturally come to examine 
a theory of a very opposite nature, a theory, not 
only refreshing, but pregnant with the brightest 
visions that ever wantoned in the vistas of hope, 
or ever threw the radiance of their splendour over 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 55 

the creations of imagination, or the associations 
of poetry. There is a glow of inspiration which 
the mind is unwilling to resist, a sacred enthusiasm 
that lifts the soul above its ordinary level, when- 
ever it can discern any connexion between human 
and divine affairs, — whenever it can trace any pro- 
pensity of our nature to the laws of an eternal, 
and over-ruling Providence. At such a moment, we 
spurn the gross controul of material existence, or 
embrace it only, because it serves as an approach to 
that more perfect state, which is the summit of all 
ourattainments. Whenweareunderthisimpression, 

Grace shines around us with serenes t beams, 
And whispering angels prompt us golden dreams. 
For us ih' unfading rose of Eden blooms, 
And wings of seraphs shed divine perfumes. 

What could be the enthusiasm of a Helvetius, 
who denied the original goodness of man; of a Vol- 
taire, who insisted on the materiality of his nature; 
of a Lucretius, who never suffered his muse to soar 
beyond the narrow precincts of sensible existence ; 
of a Hume, who swept away the material and 
spiritual world with one dash of his pen, and suf- 
fered nothing to exist but ideas and images, those 
" shadowy shapes," which " lift the unreal scene ;" 
in a word, of any man, who confines his hopes and 
expectations to the narrow span of sublunary exis- 
tence ? To what purpose is this boasted education 
which Helvetius advocates, if its influence extend 
not beyond the grave ? 



56 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

The theory which I am now about to examine, 
opens to us a happier and a brighter prospect, and 
dispels the turbid gloom of somniferous scepti- 
cism. 

The pain arising from virtuous emotions, is, 
according to Akenside, always attended with plea- 
sure ; and to this virtuous propensity he traces 
the pleasure resulting from scenes of Tragic dis- 
tress. It is a theory directly opposed to that of 
Helvetius, and, though already well known to 
every English reader^ I shall give it in his own 
words. 

Behold the ways 
Of heaven's eternal destiny to man $ — 
For ever just, benevolent, and wise : 
That virtue's awful steps, howe'er pursued 
By vexing fortune and obtrusive pain, 
Should never be divided from her chaste, 
Her fair attendant, Pleasure. Need I urge 
Thy tardy thought through all the various round 
Of this existence, that thy softening soul 
At length may learn what energy the hand 
Of virtue mingles in the bitter tide 
Of passion swelling with distress and pain, 
To mitigate the sharp with gracious drops 
Of cordial Pleasure, Ask the faithful youth, 
Why the cold urn of her whom long he loved 
So often fills his arms ; so often draws 
His lonely footsteps, at the silent hour, 
To pay the mournful tribute of his tears ? 
O ! he will tell thee, that the wealth of worlds 
Should ne'er seduce his bosom to forego 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 57 

That sacred hour, when stealing from the noise 
Of care and envy; sweet remembrance soothes, 
With virtue's kindest looks, his aching breast, 
And turns his tears to rapture. — Ask the crowd 
Which flies impatient from the village walk 
To climb the neighbouring cliffs, when far below 
The cruel winds have hurled upon the coast 
Some hopeless bark ; while sacred pity melts 
The general eye, or terror's icy hand 
Smites their distorted limbs, and horrent hair ; 
While every mother closer to her breast 
Catches her child, and pointing where the waves 
Foam through the shattered vessel, shrieks aloud 
As one poor wretch, that spreads his piteous arms 
For succour, swallowed by the roaring surge, 
As now another, dashed against the rock, 
Drops lifeless down : O ! deemest thou, indeed, 
No kind endearment here by nature given 
To mutual terror, and compassions tears ? 
No sweetly melting softness ivhich attracts, 
O'er all that edge of pain, the social powers 
To this, their proper action, and their end ? 
Ask thy own heart, when, at the midnight hour, 
Slow through the studious gloom, thy pausing eye, 
Led by the glimmering taper, moves around 
The sacred volume of the dead, the songs 
Of Grecian bards, and records writ by fame 
For Grecian heroes ■■ 



When the pious band 



Of youths that fought for freedom, and their sires, 
Lie side by side in gore j — when ruffian pride 
Usurps the throne of justice ; — turns the pomp 
Of public power, the majesty of rule, 
The sword, the laurel, and the purple robe, 
To slavish, empty pageants, to adorn 



58 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

A tyrant's walk, and glitter in the eyes 

Of such as bow the knee ; — when honoured urns 

Of patriots and of chiefs, the awful bust, 

And storied arch, to glut the coward age 

Of regal envy, strew the public way 

With hallowed ruins ! ■ 



When the patriot's tear 



Starts from thine eye, and thy extended arm, 

In fancy hurls the thunderbolt of Jove, 

To fire the impious wreath on Philip's brow, 

Or dash Octavius from the trophied car ; — 

Say does thy secret soul repine to taste 

The big distress ;~or would'st thou then exchange 

Those heart-ennobling sorrows for the lot 

Of him who sits among the gaudy herd 

Of mute barbarians bending to his nod 

And bears aloft his gold invested front, 

And says within himself, " I am a king, 

And wherefore should the clamorous voice of woe 

Intrude upon mine ear ?" 

This theory, which makes Tragic pleasure arise 
from the influence of virtuous impressions, is not 
only more general, and more philosophic than all 
the theories which we have yet noticed, but it is 
also the most pleasing which human imagination 
can conceive, as it is the only one which vindicates 
the original dignity and immortal destination of 
man. Nor is it less pleasing to find that we are 
indebted for this theory to the inspirations of the 
muse. It has poets chiefly for its advocates, and 
these, too, of no inferior order. Pope and Young 
have philosophically and poetically breathed the 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 59 

same sentiments, and maintained the same doc- 
trine. Before I examine its sufficiency to account 
for the origin of Tragic Pleasure, I shall quote a 
few lines on the subject from each of these poets ; 
and first from Young. 

Though various are the tempers of mankind, 
Pleasure's gay family holds all in chains. 
Some most affect the black, and some the fair j 
Whatever the motive, pleasure is the mark : 
For her the black assassin draws the sword ; 
For her dark statesmen trim the midnight lamp, 
To which no single sacrifice may fall. 
The stoic proud, for pleasure, pleasure scorned j 
For her Affliction's daughters grief indulge 
And find) or hope a luxury in tears. 
Patron of pleasure ! I thy rival am ; — 
Pleasure the purpose of my gloomy song ? 
Pleasure is nought but virtues gayer name 3 — 
I wrong her still, I rate her worth too low : 
Virtue the root, and pleasure is thefiower. 
****** 

For what are virtues, (formidable name !) 
What but the fountain or defence of joy ? 

The following is from Pope. 

Know then this truth, (enough for man to know,) 

Virtue alone is happiness below. 

The only point where human bliss stands still, 

And tastes the good without the fall to ill. 

The broadest mirth, unfeeling folly wears, 

Less pleasing far than virtue's very tears. 

See the sole bliss heaven could on man bestow, 

Which who but feels can taste, but thinks can know ; 



60 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

Yet, poor with fortune, and with learning blind, 
The bad must miss, the good, untaught, will find. 

That every virtuous impression is pleasing to 
the soul, however it may be accompanied by pains 
and sorrows, is a truth which no sophistry can 
disprove, and to which every virtuous mind can 
afford instant testimony. To call upon others to 
confirm the fact would be absurd, because no man 
can feel a virtuous impression but the virtuous 
man himself; and, consequently, no other can tell 
whether it be pleasing or otherwise. We can reason 
only from what we know, and he who never felt 
a virtuous impression, knows, consequently, nothing 
about it. The ill-boding sceptic who denies the 
original goodness of human nature, and who 
aknowledges that he has no more idea of " a 
moral sense than of a moral castle," is, conse- 
quently, a stranger to virtuous emotions, and un- 
qualified to reason about them, or tell whether 
they are agreeable or disagreeable, because plea- 
sure is known only by being felt. 

So far then as regards virtuous impressions, no 
question can remain of their being all pleasing to 
the soul, whether they arise from Tragic Repre- 
sentations or not ; but there still remain unan- 
swerable objections to the theory which resolves 
all our pleasures, or even those arising from Tragic 
Representations, into a sense of virtue. In the first 
place, there are many sensations and emotions 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 61 

which are always pleasing, though they have not 
the remotest alliance with virtue, — such as the 
pleasure derived from comic scenes, and, conse- 
quently, virtue cannot be the general law of 
pleasure. 

We cannot therefore maintain, that Tragic emo- 
tions are pleasing because they are virtuous ; for 
if some pleasing emotions be not virtuous, it may 
happen that Tragic emotions may be among the 
number. Now it happens, that there are an infinity 
of pleasing emotions besides those of comedy, 
which have not the most distant connexion with 
virtuous affections ; and it also happens, that 
some portion of the pleasure arising from Tragic 
Representations can be clearly traced to this 
class of pleasing emotions. All good imita- 
tions are pleasing to us whether they represent 
real objects or real circumstances and events. To 
imitate the realities of life correctly and naturally, 
requires great ingenuity, and a peculiar appropria- 
tion of the mental powers ; but genius and energy 
of mind have no original connexion with virtue. 
The greatest poet is not the greatest saint ; nor is 
the greatest saint the most intelligent of the human 
race. Men of the greatest genius have been found 
to deny every principle of morality, and, conse- 
quently, every principle of religion on which virtue 
can rest ; but yet it is genius, and genius only, 
whether it be sanctified or reprobate, that can ever 



62 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

succeed in giving a correct imitation of nature* 
When we are pleased with this imitation, there- 
fore, it is not the virtue but the genius of the 
artist that communicates the pleasure. A paint- 
ing or a poem badly executed is despised, how- 
ever we may venerate the virtues of the person 
who produced it ; so that I may safely venture to 
assert, that the pleasure resulting from imitation, 
as imitation, has not the remotest alliance with vir- 
tuous impressions of any kind, and, consequently, 
cannot be placed among the pleasures resulting from 
virtue. Now it cannot be denied that a part of 
the pleasures arising from Tragic Representations, 
is owing to pure imitation alone, or, in other 
words, to the power, felicity, and skill with which 
the actors imitate the real scenes, circumstances, 
events, passions, emotions, and catastrophes which 
they represent on the stage. The deepest tragedy 
will but lightly affect the audience if it be bung- 
lingiy represented ; yet the distress is the same 
whether it be represented by a good or a bad actor. 
It matters little whether a man be put to death 
clown-like, or soldier-like, whether poison be drank 
awkwardly or gracefully : the distress, in all cases, 
is the same. As the pleasure, then, is far from be- 
ing the same, or, rather, as there is little or no 
pleasure in witnessing the best tragedy when bad- 
ly performed, it follows, that a portion, at least, 
of the pleasure resulting from Tragic Represen- 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 63 

tations, arises from the skill and dramatic genius 
of the performers. If this were not the case, Kean's 
Richard would not impart more pleasure than the 
lateMr.Kemble's,nor Mrs.Siddons' Belvidera than 
Miss O'Neils. This part of the pleasure cannot, 
consequently, be traced to the power or influence 
of virtue over the heart ; for I have already shewn, 
that the pleasure we find in imitation has no al- 
liance with virtue, because the pleasure is the same 
whether the imitation be executed by a moral and 
religious, or by an abandoned unprincipled artist. 
While, therefore, it cannot be denied that all vir- 
tuous emotions are pleasing, it is obvious that the 
entire of the emotions arising from Tragedy can- 
not be traced to a sense of virtue ; and that, con- 
sequently, the aggregate of Tragic Pleasure must 
be traced to some more general law of human 
nature. , 

We come now to the theory which ascribes 
Tragic Pleasure to sympathy. This is the most 
popular theory on the subject, having not only the 
bulk of mankind for its supporters, but also some 
philosophers and eminent writers : at least, that 
they were of this opinion may be easily collected 
from their works. 

It is usual, however, with philosophers, as with 
the rest of mankind, to mistake effects for causes, 
of which we have an instance in the theory which 
we are now going to examine. Sympathy cannot 



G4 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

be the cause of any pleasure, for instead of being 
a cause, it is an effect : instead of producing plea- 
sure, it is itself the very pleasure which it is said 
to produce, and of the origin of which we are at 
present in pursuit. Whenever we see an innocent 
person placed in any situation, which, in our opinion, 
renders him more unhappy than we are ourselves, 
we feel sensible of an immediate, instinctive emo- 
tion which prompts us to solace and alleviate his 
sufferings ; and, even if we cannot effect his re- 
lief, we still place ourselves in his situation, and 
indulge, in a certain degree, the same wishes of 
seeing him released that he does himself. It is a 
curious fact, however, that we cannot feel this 
sanctified emotion in the misfortunes of others, 
if we are ourselves more unfortunate than they 
are. It is true, indeed, that if we are only equal 
to them in distress, we cannot refuse them our 
sympathy. We share in their afflictions, because 
they assimilate with our own ; but, however un- 
fortunate they are, we resist the sympathetic im- 
pulse, if we be still more unfortunate ourselves. 
This, at least, is the general law of our nature ; 
but, like all general laws, it has its exceptions. 
We sympathize, for instance, in the sufferings of 
a dear friend, or a near relation, even when they 
are less than our own, because, the law which at- 
taches us to them, is more powerful than the law 
which prevents us from sympathizing with lighter 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. (55 

evils than those which we ourselves endure. This 
general law will easily explain, why adversity in- 
durates all the finer susceptibilities of our nature, 
and leaves us almost without a particle of com- 
miseration for the distresses of others. When- 
ever we sympathize, however, in the misfortunes 
of any individual, it is clear that the sympathetic 
emotion is caused by the circumstances in which 
he is placed. It is, therefore, an effect, and not a 
cause ; and so are all the emotions and passions 
that ever agitated the human breast. They are 
never felt until some circumstance occurs which is 
calculated to excite them. We know from expe- 
rience, that the emotion which we call sympathy, 
is a pleasing emotion, which is saying*, in other 
words, that sympathy is a pleasure. It cannot 
be a pleasure, however, according to the theory 
which we are now examining, as it makes sympathy 
the cause by which the pleasure is produced. The 
pleasures which we ascribe to sympathy, therefore, 
should be more properly ascribed to the various 
circumstances and situations by which various 
modifications of sympathy are excited within us. 
No two circumstances will produce the same mo- 
dification, for the sympathetic emotion will vary in 
its degree and character, according to the diver- 
sity of the circumstances by which it is excited. 
We sympathize in the distress of a parent who 
has lost his only son ; we sympathize also in the 

F 



66 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

distress of a parent who lost one son out of twelve. 
In these cases, the sympathetic emotion diners only 
in degree ; but when we sympathize in the fate of 
two unfortunate lovers, the emotion which we 
experience diners from the former, not only in 
degree, but likewise in character. In all these 
instances, however, the emotion which we feel is 
pleasing to us, so that whatever produces a sym- 
pathetic emotion, necessarily produces a pleasing 
one, for both emotions are but one and the same 
impression. We cannot separate the pleasing from 
the sympathetic emotion, even in idea; so that it 
is perfectly confounding cause and effect to ascribe 
the pleasure resulting from Tragic Scenes to sym- 
pathy, because sympathy, so far from being the 
cause of pleasure, is, itself, the pleasure which is 
said to proceed from some sympathy. 

According to Adam Smith's theory of sym- 
pathy, comedy should be much more pleasing 
to us than tragedy. " We often struggle," he 
says, " to keep down our sympathy with the sor- 
row of others. Whenever, we are not under the 
observation of the sufferer we endeavour, for our 
own sake, to suppress it as much as we can ; but 
we never have occasion to make this opposition to 
our sympathy with joy. When there is no envy 
in the case, our propensity to sympathize with joy 
is much stronger than our propensity to sympa- 
thize with sorrow. Adversity depresses the mind 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 67 

of the sufferer much more below its natural state 
than prosperity can elevate him above it. The spec 
tator must, therefore, find it much more difficult 
to sympathize entirely, and keep perfect time with 
his sorrow ; than thoroughly to enter into his joy, 
and must depart much further from his own 
natural and ordinary temper of mind in the one 
case than in the other. It is on this account that, 
though our sympathy with sorrow is often a more 
pungent sensation than our sympathy with joy, it 
always falls much more short of the violence of 
what is naturally felt by the person principally 
concerned. When we attend to the representation 
of a tragedy, we struggle against that sympathetic 
sorrow which the entertainment inspires, as long 
as we can, and we give way to it at last only when 
we can no longer avoid it. We even then endea- 
vour to cover our concern from the company. If 
we shed any tears we carefully conceal them, and 
are afraid lest the spectators, not entering into this 
excessive tenderness, should regard it as effeminacy 
and weakness." * 

This theory of sympathy would appear to have 
been written by a person who drew his observa- 
tions from his own feelings, but who, unhap- 
pily, had no sympathetic feeling to consult. If 
our propensity to sympathize with joy be much 
stronger than our propensity to sympathize with 
sorrow, why do we prefer tragedies to comedies ? 

f2 



68 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

why do the former bring fuller houses ? and why 
are the deepest tragedies the most interesting of 
all others ? 

However we may reason on the subject, there- 
fore, experience proves, that the pleasure which 
we derive from sympathizing with the misfortunes 
of others, imparts a delight which we would not 
exchange for all the unprized, and undignified plea- 
sure that can be extracted from the most rapturous 
bursts of merriment. The fact is, that the more 
extravagantly we perceive a person indulge his 
joyful sensations, the less we are inclined to sym- 
pathize with him ; whereas our sympathy^ always 
increases with the deepening depth of affliction. 
We resist the sympathetic emotions, in the one case, 
and we feel pleased with ourselves for doing so ; or, 
if we indulge it in the extreme, so far from claiming 
credit for our sympathy, we blush to reflect upon it ; 
while, in the other, we give free indulgence to all 
the luxury of grief. The reason of this approbation 
and disapprobation is obvious, however difficult it 
may be to account for the pleasure that accom- 
panies our grief. Immoderate joy is the pleasure 
not only of weak but of little minds. No sensation 
should be stronger than the agency of the cause 
by which it is excited, and the causes that pro- 
duce joy can never act with such intensity on the 
risible part of our nature, as the causes that are 
productive of grief and torment. The most heart- 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 69 

felt joy bears no proportion to the most agonizing 
pain ; not only, because there is no proportion be- 
tween the intensity of these opposite sensations, at 
the moment, but because the reflection with which 
each of them is attended, serves to abate the one 
in the same proportion that it increases the other. 
However elevated or enraptured we may be by the 
excitement of the moment, we know, that this 
excitement will be of short duration, even though 
thecause which produces it should continue through 
life ; for we are so constituted by nature, that the 
strongest excitement soon loses its effect upon us, 
and the more powerfully it is suffered to act, the 
greater is the depression by which it is followed. 
A consciousness, therefore, of the short-lived nature 
of excessive joy serves to moderate its indulgence 
in all rational minds ; and, consequently, we refuse 
to sympathize with him who places no restraint 
upon it, because if he choose to forget, we, who are 
mere spectators, cannot forget, that this paroxysm 
will soon be at an end ; and, therefore, it moderates 
our joy, at least, if it does not moderate his. The 
reflection that accompanies grief or pain serves, 
on the contrary, not only to increase it, but to in- 
crease our sympathy for its unhappy victim. No 
man can properly be said to be in grief, who has 
a certainty, that the cause of his uneasiness is 
only to continue a few days or hours. The man 
who is thrown into prison for life, and confined in 



70 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

a cold, dark, and cheerless dungeon, not only feels 
the physical pain of the moment, but increases it 
by reflecting, that death only can put an end to his 
sufferings. The lover who weeps over the grave 
of her whose presence was his heaven, whose image 
was his paradise, but whom even the madden- 
ing dreams of delusive hope can no longer restore 
to his ardent wishes, feels not only all the pains 
and grief of separation, but all those deeper and 
indescribable torments suggested by the reflection 
that this separation must last for ever. Immode- 
rate joy can arise only from physical impulses, for 
mental pleasures are of a more chastened and re- 
fined nature ; but grief has not only to contend 
with the physical pains of the moment, but with 
those eternally mingled and multiplied associations 
which force themselves upon the imagination, or 
which this busy and inventive faculty cannot re- 
frain from creating, even when they plunge it in all 
the gloom and horrors of despair. 

When Mr. Smith says, that " adversity depresses 
the mind of the sufferer much more below its 
natural state than prosperity can elevate him above 
it," he evidently confounds the person who suffers 
with him who sympathizes in his sufferings, when 
he infers from this depression our unwillingness to 
indulge in sympathy with sorrow. He should have 
recollected, however, that in treating of sympathy, 
we should rest our principles, not upon him who 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 71 

suffers, or who endures this adversity, but upon 
him who sympathizes in his calamity. The suffer- 
ing man feels no sympathy himself, for it is a fact, 
supported by experience, that he who suffers pain 
is incapable of sympathizing in the pains of others, 
unless they are still greater than his own. Hence 
it is, that adversity blunts all the finer feelings and 
sensibilities of the heart, and makes us strangers 
to that sympathetic and tender commiseration 
which glows in the bosoms of those who are them- 
selves strangers to the pangs of adversity. To say 
that the pains of such sympathy " depresses the 
mind," is to say what is the very reverse of the 
fact ; for we never feel ourselves more ennobled, we 
are never so pleased and gratified with ourselves as 
when we feel ourselves yielding to the divine and 
hallowed impulse of sympathy or commiseration 
with the sufferings of others. In fact, it is only 
great and noble minds that are capable of this 
feeling, and so far from regretting the pains and 
humiliation which, Mr. Smith says, accompanies 
it ; there is no reflection to which they recur with 
more pride and pleasure, than that which reminds 
them of it. It proves not only a guardian angel 
that warns them against the seductions of vice, but 
which eternally prompts them to pursue that un- 
sullied course of life which is the parent of great 
and generous emotions ; of those emotions which 
not only impart all the felicity that can be enjoyed 



/2 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

in this life, but which realize by their secret im- 
pulses, and indescribable communications, a por- 
tion of that inheritance which we anticipate in the 
next. The slightest inclination to levity, the slight- 
est temptation to stray from the paths of virtue 
and honour, is instantly extinguished, the moment 
we reflect on those emotions by which we felt our- 
selves ennobled when we sympathized with virtue 
in distress ; for to say that we can sympathize with 
vice, that we can identify ourselves with the pains 
and sufferings of him who leads a life of iniquity, 
who has spent his life in studying to promote his 
own interests, at the expense of others, is to say, 
that we are ourselves, if I may use a vulgar expres- 
sion, a chip of the same block. Congenial natures 
only can sympathize with each other ; and, there- 
fore, however we may pity, we cannot sympathize 
w r ith him whose principles of conduct have been 
at variance with those which we ourselves hold 
sacred. However afflicted we perceive any indi- 
vidual to be, we repress, as much as we can, our 
sympathetic emotions, or, at least, those incipient 
impulses that prompt us to sympathize with him, 
if he be a stranger, until we discover whether he 
has brought this affliction upon himself by aban- 
donment of principle, or profligacy of character ; 
and if we discover that he has, the small degree of 
sympathy which we could not entirely suppress 
while wb remained in doubt, becomes instantly 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 73 

extinct. We may still, perhaps, continue to pity, 
but we cannot sympathize. Our sympathies can 
only be elicited by those in whom we perceive no 
quality or disposition of mind which we ourselves 
would blush to avow. " Sympathy," to use the 
words of a French writer, " is that reciprocity of 
affection and of inclination, that quick communi- 
cation of one heart with another, which is imparted 
and felt with an inexplicable rapidity ; it is that 
conformity of natural qualities, ideas, humours 
and tempers, by which two kindred spirits seek 
each other, love each other, become attached to 
each other, and melt into one."* Whatever draws 
the heart to any object, the sensation or passion by 
which it is drawn is a sympathetic emotion, and 
therefore love is the strongest of all sympathies, 
and hatred the strongest of all antipathies. In 
proportion as any two natures resemble each 
other, will they approach to each other; and in 
proportion as they differ from each other, will 
they recoil. As sympathy, then, is the opposite 
to antipathy, it can exist only between kindred 

* Cette convenance d'affection et d'inclination, cette intelli- 
gence des coeurs communique^ rependue, sentie avec une rapidite 
inexplicable ; cette conformity des quality naturelles, d'id^es, 
d'humeurs, et de temperaraens par laquelle deux ames assorties, 
se cherchent, s'aiment, s'attachent Tune a l'autre se confondent 
ensemble, c'est ce qu'on nomme Sympathie. —Encyclopedic. Ar- 
ticle, Sympathle. * 



74 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

natures, or, at least, its degree will always depend 
on the degree of affinity that exists between them. 
It is this affinity that causes affection, and this 
affection is only another name for sympathy. I 
cannot, therefore, agree with Mr. Smith, that "we 
often struggle to keep down our sympathy with the 
sorrows of others," and " suppress it as much as 
we can, whenever we are not under their observa- 
tion." In fact, the person who sympathizes with 
his suffering friend only while he is in his presence, 
and seeks to suppress his sympathy the moment 
he departs, is only he who works himself into a 
false sympathy, and assumes a virtue which he 
does not feel, in order to impose on his friend. 
Such a man is a hypocrite, and if he believe that 
that emotion which he endeavours to suppress, 
after departing from his friend, was real sympathy, 
it only proves, that sympathy is a virtue, of which 
he who never felt it, wishes to believe himself pos- 
sessed. Such is the power of virtue over the human 
mind, that the most hardened villain endeavours to 
reconcile himself with his conscience, and ascribes 
his evil actions either to temptation or necessity, so 
that his system of reasoning, as well as his self- 
love, makes him believe, that he has many good 
qualities, and that he is, at bottom, as good as 
others. It is so with sympathy: so sweet and 
humanizing are its charms, and so peculiarly does 
it mark out those who are most susceptible of its 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 75 

sacred impulse, as the peculiar favourites of heaven, 
that even the man whose stubborn and intractable 
nature has never suffered him to feel the pleasing 
luxury of woe, cannot endure to be thought inca- 
pable of sympathetic emotions. He therefore en- 
deavours to work himself into a false sympathy, 
while he is in the presence of his suffering friend, 
but the moment he departs, he seeks to work him- 
self out of it. He finds it is not natural to him ; 
he is of too gross and earthly a mould to cherish 
so ennobling and divine a sensation. He therefore 
shakes it off, and returns to his natural insensibi- 
lity. We are always uneasy while we are out of 
our natural element. 

Naturam expellas, furca tamen usque recurret. 

Or, as Juvenal expresses it, 

Custode et cura natura potentior omni. 

We do not, then, as Mr. Smith affirms u strug- 
gle to keep down our sympathies with the sorrows 
of others, whenever we are not under their obser- 
vation," but we endeavour to suppress that mock 
sympathy which we attempted to impose upon them 
for genuine. Real sympathy, so far from depress- 
ing, ennobles the mind ; so far from seeking to 
suppress, we cherish it as the most sacred pledge 
of our humanity, the most pleasing, because the 
most virtuous, impulse of which we ever felt con- 
scious. 



76 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

, . Ask the faithful youth, 

Why the cold urn of her whom long he lov'd 
So often fills his arms, — so often draws 
His lonely foot-steps, at the silent hour, 
To pay the mournful tribute of his tears ? 
Oh ! he will tell thee that the wealth of worlds 
Should ne'er seduce his bosom to forget 
That sacred hour, when stealing from the noise 
Of care and envy, sweet remembrance soothes, 
With virtue's kindest look, his aching breast, 
And turns his tears to rapture. 

Sympathy, then, so far from depressing, not only 
ennobles us, as I have just observed, but turns our 
very " tears to rapture;" — so far from struggling to 
suppress it, " the wealth of worlds cannot seduce 
us to forego it." Mr. Smith has, therefore, taken a 
most erroneous view of the nature of sympathy, 
when he says, that we " find it much more difficult 
to sympathize entirely, and keep perfect time with 
sorrow, than thoroughly to enter into joy ;" for if 
we have the least difficulty in the former case, it is 
impossible, by any effort of nature, to make us 
sympathize at all. We may pity, — we may com- 
miserate, — a cold sense of duty may make us per- 
form all the kind offices to the sufferer, which the 
virtue of charity inculcates ; but still we may not 
feel a particle of sympathy ; for all this may be done 
where the object of our pity is the most depraved 
and abandoned of human beings ; but sympathy 
cannot be created or excited within us by any effort 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 77 

of our own ; it must come of its own accord, or 
not come at all ; it must come upon us like a thief, 
and/ in general, its approaches are secret and im- 
perceptible. We cannot, by any effort of our own, 
create any unmixed feeling, such as sympathy, joy, 
hatred, &c. They can result only from the opera- 
tion of some external influence, and our suscepti- 
bility of yielding to the influence exercised over 
us. Neither of these causes can, of itself, produce 
any unmixed feeling within us ; it always requires 
the co-operation of both. No agency can, of itself, 
excite sympathy, joy, or hatred, if our natures are 
averse to their indulgence ; that is, if we be so or- 
ganized as to have a natural antipathy for hatred, 
joy, or sympathy ; nor can any disposition of our 
natures to the indulgence of these feelings, enable 
lis to excite them by any effort of our own, without 
the co-operation of some external influence. No 
man ever fell into a fit, or paroxysm of joy, but 
could tell what caused it. He can always point 
out something that excited this extraordinary burst 
of merriment. It is so with hatred : no man, how- 
ever formed by nature with a disposition for hatred, 
can feel this passion, until some object or quality, 
repulsive to his feelings, awaken it in his breast. 
Sympathy, in like manner, cannot be felt by the 
kindest and the most humane of mortals, until 
some object fitted to excite it presents itself to his 
view. When Mr. Smith therefore says, " it is more 



78 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

difficult to sympathize entirely, and keep perfect 
time with sorrow, than thoroughly to enter into 
joy," he evidently imagines, that we can create 
feelings of ourselves, without any assistance from 
external agency. He does not perceive, that where 
such an agency is exercised over us, there can be 
no difficulty in yielding to it, if we are susceptible 
of the feeling which it is calculated to excite, and 
that if we are not, no effort can enable us to feel its 
influence. Hence it requires no greater effort on our 
part to enter into, and become possessed of the most 
powerful passions, those passions that carry us far- 
thest from our " own natural and ordinary temper 
of mind," than to yield to the slightest modes of feel- 
ing, simply because it requires no effort whatever 
in either case. The slightest sensation which we 
feel cannot be produced without a cause or agency: 
the strongest sensation, emotion, or passion, re- 
quires an agency proportionately strong. Where 
such agencies are exercised, the one produces its 
effect with the same ease as, and with neither more 
nor less difficulty than, the other. If Thomas be 
four times stronger than James, he lifts four hun- 
dred weight with as much ease as, and with neither 
more nor less difficulty than, James can lift one 
hundred. This law holds good throughout the 
immense, and perhaps the illimitable, creation, 
which is subject to the dominion of cause and effect. 
Thus it is, that Lear found no greater difficulty in 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 79 

departing from his "own natural, and ordinary tem- 
per of mind," and becoming an irreclaimable, im- 
medicable, incurable madman, than the drunkard 
feels in passing from a state of sobriety to that of 
intoxication. Neither Lear became mad, nor 
Anacreon drunk, without a cause sufficient to pro- 
duce the effect ; and where such a cause exists, it 
is contrary to the laws of Nature, if the effect does 
not follow it. There is no difficulty, therefore, in 
departing from our " natural and ordinary temper 
of mind," where there is a sufficient impulse to 
force us from it : the great difficulty consists, not 
in yielding to the impulse, but in resisting it. I 
must, at the same time, confess myself entirely 
ignorant of what Mr. Smith means by " Sympa- 
thizing entirely, and keeping perfect time with sor- 
row ;" for if he mean that we do not sympathize 
entirely as much as the person who is the object of 
our sympathy, I reply, that we sympathize infinitely 
more if we sympathize at all ; simply, because he 
who is wrestling in the pangs of affliction, cannot, 
as I have already observed, sympathize in the least. 
It is only he who is free from all pain and affliction 
himself, that can properly sympathize in the woes 
of others. " The happy man," as Helvetius ob- 
serves, "is humane: he is the couching lion." The 
unhappy man retires within himself: he has no 
sympathy to impart ; all external influences lose 
their effect upon him ; he is dark, gloomy, and 



80 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

irresponsive; and therefore, however much we may 
lament his misfortunes, however much we may 
sympathize in his griefs, however willing we may 
be to excuse his insensibility, which we should 
always do, if it arise from the circumstances in 
which he is placed, and not from the natural inflex- 
ibility or insensibility of his disposition, we must 
not expect, that all these indulgences, nor all the 
marks of attention, kindness, and regret which we 
can express towards him, can make him sympa- 
thize w T ith us as strongly as we sympathize with 
him, until he is first placed in the enjoyment of 
equal happiness with ourselves. He feels grati- 
tude, it is true, but gratitude is not sympathy. Mr. 
Smith, then, either means nothing, or means what 
is wrong, when he says, that we cannot " sympa- 
thize entirely with his sorrow ;" for if he mean by 
entirely, that we do not sympathize as much as 
he does, it is evident from the preceding observa- 
tions, that we sympathize infinitely more; for as the 
smallest particle of matter is infinitely greater than 
nothing, in consequence of its divisibility ad infi- 
nitum, so must his total want of sympathy be 
infinitely less than the degree of sympathy which 
we feel, however slight it may be in itself. If he 
mean by sympathizing " entirely" that our sym- 
pathy is not sufficiently strong, I reply, that the 
entirety of sympathy does not depend on the degree 
in which it is felt. Though all modes of feeling are 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURES. 81 

not equally strong, yet they are all equally whole 
and entire, as the particular degree in which any 
mode is felt can have no relation to the property 
that constitutes its essence or entirety. Feeling, 
like the soul, of which it is a mere affection, is 
incapable of being divided into parts, and what- 
ever is incapable of parts is equally incapable of 
being made more or less entire than it is already. 
If not, no degree of sympathy would be entire, 
as a higher degree would be more entire, an ex- 
pression which is neither sense nor grammar. It is 
not, therefore, so difficult as Mr. Smith imagines, to 
sympathize entirely with sorrow; and he himself, in 
a few lines after, gives a clear proof of it. " When 
we attend," he says, " to the representation of a 
tragedy, we struggle against that sympathetic sor- 
row which the entertainment inspires, as long as 
we can, and we give way to it at last only when 
we can no longer avoid it. We even then endea- 
vour to cover our concern from the company. If 
we shed any tears, we carefully conceal them, and 
are afraid lest the spectators, not entering into this 
excessive tenderness, should regard it as effeminacy 
and weakness." How Mr. Smith could suppose 
that these observations, admitting them to be true, 
and, with regard to the majority of cultivated 
society, they undoubtedly are so, is a proof that 
sympathy with sorrow is not so natural and pleas- 
ing to us as sympathy with joy, I am at a loss to 

G 



82 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

determine. To me it appears, that stronger argu- 
ments cannot be adduced, to prove that the former 
sympathy is, beyond all comparison, the most 
natural and congenial to our feelings. When we 
struggle against that sympathetic sorrow which 
tragedy inspires, is it not evident that we struggle 
against our own nature ; that we are endeavouring 
to suppress its natural operations, and the sympa- 
thetic affections to which it wishes us to resign our- 
selves? Our struggling against them by no means 
proves, that they are unnatural and displeasing to 
us ; for if so, it follows, that whatever the fashion- 
able world profess to be displeased with, must be 
naturally displeasing, antecedent to fashion and to 
its influence over the mind. This, we know, is not 
the fact : natural pleasures, and natural manners, 
are pleasing to all men, and the fashionable man 
professes to despise them only because he has 
suffered himself to become a slave to principles 
which have no foundation in nature. It is so in 
the case before us : when we struggle against the 
sympathetic emotions of sorrow, we connect our- 
selves with the fashionable world ; for if we acted 
according to the laws of our nature, we should, so 
far from struggling, yield instinctively to this de- 
lightful emotion. It is not the emotion, then, that 
is unnatural, but the act by which we endeavour 
to suppress it. Should it be objected, that we would 
not endeavour to suppress it, if it were not natural 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 83 

for us to do so, I reply, that no man would endea- 
vour to suppress it, if he were alone, and unobserv- 
ed. We repress it only because each of us is, unhap- 
pily, vain enough to suppose, that his countenance is 
watched by those around him ; and, as it is not sanc- 
tioned by the rules of fashionable life to appear ex- 
ternally affected by internal emotions, we endeavour 
to suppress, I must say unnaturally, those affec- 
tions and passions by which we are agitated, and 
which nature only could have originally inspired. 
It is idle, then, to suppose, that when we " endea- 
vour to cover our concern from the company/' we 
do so because it is unnatural to feel affected at the 
time. In such cases, we are always determined, 
not by our own feelings, but by what we suppose to 
be the opinion of others. We throw aside the im- 
mutable standard of nature, and are blindly guided 
by the capricious standard of fashion. The truth of 
these observations will be placed beyond all doubt, 
if we look to the manners of natural society, where 
we find no restraint placed on the external signs 
of passion. Pleasure and pain, love and hatred, 
hope and fear, are no sooner felt, than they are ex- 
pressed in the countenance, without being in the 
least tempered or modified by any unnatural strug- 
gle to suppress them, or to silence that natural 
language, in which they so eloquently express them- 
selves. If, as Cicero says, Omnis motus animi, mum 
quendam a natura habet vultum et sonum, et gestum, 

g2 



84 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

surely it must be admitted, that such external signs 
of internal emotions, are natural and agreeable to 
us, and, if so, the struggles of those who endeavour 
to suppress them, are consequently unnatural. 
" Excessive joy," says Lord Kaimes, " is expressed 
by leaping, dancing, or some elevation of the body: 
excessive grief, by sinking or depressing it." Which 
is it, then, more philosophical to conclude, that these 
are natural signs of natural passions, or to main- 
tain with Mr. Smith, that, because some people 
struggle to suppress them, which is evidently done 
from an apprehension of appearing vulgar, they 
are neither natural nor agreeable to us. That they 
are natural, I believe no one will deny, but that 
they are agreeable, may not, perhaps, be so impli- 
citly and universally admitted. It requires, how- 
ever, only a little reflection to perceive, that what- 
ever is natural is always more agreeable than that 
which is opposed to it. He who manifests his joy 
by dancing and leaping, is certainly happier than 
he who endeavours to suppress these signs of his 
passion ; and the spectator who approves of, and 
sympathizes in his enjoyment, is also happier in 
indulging this sympathy, than the cold disciple of 
fashion, who affects to smile at his want of taste. It 
is so with grief: the person who yields to it with- 
out resistance is happier than he whose stubborn 
nature will not suffer him to bend to it. Hence, 
tears prove always the greatest relief to the afflicted, 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 85 

while he who is incapable of shedding them, is a 
prey to the most agonizing and tormenting pain. 

The remainder of Mr. Smith's theory of sympa- 
thy is, as may reasonably be expected, equally 
erroneous ; for he who mistakes his way at the 
commencement, can afterwards go right only by 
chance. While we detect error, however, we are 
not justified in condemning it, or, more properly 
speaking, we are not justified in attributing it to 
the absence of intellectual power. Error reposes 
under the shade of the highest authorities, for who 
has been able to avoid its snares. The retreats of 
certainty are frequently concealed from us in impe- 
netrable darkness, so that inspiration alone, or the 
secret guidance of instinct, can sometimes lead us to 
the wizard and unfrequented haunts in which it has 
fixed its abode. It escapes, when it lists, all the 
acumen and penetration of genius, and all the ana- 
lyzing discrimination and researches of philosophy* 
But while the contracted bounds of human intel- 
lection oblige us to excuse error, we cannot so 
easily forgive inconsistency. One fundamental 
error leads to a thousand more ; but inconsistency 
is always the offspring of immediate inattention, 
or confusion of ideas. While, therefore, we excuse 
the continuity of error which marks the remainder 
of Mr. Smith's Theory, we cannot so easily pass 
over its palpabie inconsistencies. " When we con- 
dole," he says, "with our friends in their afflictions, 



86 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

how little do we feel in comparison to what they 
feel. We sit down by them, we look at them ; and 
while they relate to us the circumstances of their 
misfortunes, we listen to them with gravity and 
attention. But while their narration is every 
moment interrupted by those natural bursts of 
passion, which often seem almost to choke them 
in the midst of it, how far are the languid emo- 
tions of our hearts from keeping tune to the trans- 
ports of theirs. We may be sensible, at the same 
time, that their passion is natural, and no greater 
than what we ourselves might feel upon the like 
occasion. We may even inwardly reproach our- 
selves with our want of sensibility, and, perhaps, on 
that account, work ourselves up into an artificial 
sympathy, which, however, when it is raised, is 
always the slightest and most transitory imagi- 
nable, and, generally, when we have left the room, 
vanishes, and is gone for ever." 

From the first sentence in this passage Mr. 
Smith wishes to infer, that as we do not feel the 
afflictions of another as much as he feels himself, we 
are more inclined to sympathize with joy than with 
sorrow. This inference was certainly never de- 
duced from the philosophy of human nature, or 
the common feelings of mankind; for, however 
deeply we may feel for the misfortunes of a friend, 
it is obvious that our feelings must be entirely 
of a different character from his. The character 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 87 

of every feeling is determined by the cause or cir- 
cumstances by which it is produced. There can be 
no affinity or similarity of feeling between Henry, 
who is so passionately enamoured of Eliza that he 
would sacrifice his life to preserve hers, and James, 
who bears her such mortal hatred that he would 
instantly suffer death if it could only lead to her 
destruction. Both feelings are equally intense ; but 
as the one proceeds from love, the other from 
hatred, no comparison can be instituted between 
them. While ever the causes of feeling are dif- 
ferent, the feelings themselves must be equally so. 
It is therefore impossible, that he who suffers under 
any affliction, and he who sympathizes in his suf- 
ferings, can ever feel alike. The feelings of the 
former are caused by the situation in which he is 
placed, or the bodily pains by which he is afflicted, 
but those of the latter cannot arise from either of 
these causes, as he is neither placed in the same 
situation, nor tormented by the same pains. He 
has no feelings on the occasion but what are 
entirely of a mental character, as they arise, not 
from any physical causes or circumstances affect- 
ing himself. All his feelings, at the moment, are 
excited, by reflecting on the situation of his friend, 
and his distressed state of mind. His feelings are 
therefore caused by reflection, which is a mental 
act, whereas those of his friend are produced by 
real, sensible causes, namely, the situation in which 



88 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

he is placed, or the physical pains which he is ac- 
tually enduring. He, therefore, who sympathizes 
can never feel like the person with whom he sym- 
pathizes, unless he be placed in the same situation, 
or afflicted by the same pains, in which case his 
sympathy, is at an end, and he only feels for him- 
self. It is therefore perfectly inconsistent to in- 
stitute any comparison between the feelings of him 
who suffers, and him who sympathizes in his suffer- 
ngs, as they can never be of the same character, 
unless the latter can fancy himself in the situation 
of the former, that is, unless he can part with his 
senses, in which case, his feelings are not those of 
sympathy but of actual suffering. 

If, however, it should be said, that Mr. Smith 
does not allude to any similarity of feeling between 
them, and only means to express the small degree 
of sympathy which we are apt to feel for our suf- 
fering friends ; he is, even in this case, as inconsis- 
tent as in the former. If he spoke from his own 
experience, he rested his assertion on the most fal- 
lacious and uncertain ground, as the degree of 
sympathy which he usually felt for his suffering 
friends could by no means determine the degree 
in which it is felt by others. Cold, phlegmatic 
dispositions (and philosophers not unfrequently are 
found among this class) feel little or no sympathy 
for distress of any kind ; but even among men of 
more sanguine temperaments, the degrees of sym- 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 89 

pathy are as different as the different degrees of 
susceptibility imparted to them by nature. In fact, 
we can never pretend to say whether an individual 
will feel a " little/' or a great degree of sympathy, 
unless we are very intimately acquainted with him, 
and have sufficient opportunities of ascertaining his 
natural susceptibility of feeling. Nor can even 
this knowledge enable us to decide, if the person 
with whose distress he sympathizes be not a total 
stranger to him ; for, with regard to our friends, 
our sympathy depends as much on accidentalbiases, 
and peculiar relations, as on our natural suscepti- 
bility of impressions. Hence, he who has several 
unfortunate friends, cannot sympathize alike with 
any two of them, because the degree of sympathy 
which he feels for each of them, will depend on the 
degree of affliction endured, and the degree of at- 
tachment which he had previously felt for him who 
endures it. Mr. Smith, therefore, manifests no very 
extensive knowledge of human nature, when he 
says, that while our friends " relate to us the cir- 
cumstances of their misfortunes, we listen to them 
with gravity and attention," for if some of us do so, 
there are many among us who listen to them with 
very different feelings, and whose tears bear testi- 
mony to the sensibility of their hearts. Theirs is 
not that " artificial sympathy which generally va- 
nishes when we have left the room, and is gone for 
ever ;" and I cannot help repeating, that Mr. Smith 



90 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

would -seem to have taken his theory of sympathy, 
and particularly his idea of artificial sympathy, from 
observations made on the state of his own feelings, 
whenever his sympathy was called for. A little 
philosophy, however, would have taught him, that 
in this, as in all other cases, the feelings of one 
man can never determine the feelings of another. 
What follows is still worse ; " It is on aecount of 
this dull insensibility to the afflictions of others, 
that magnaminity amidst great distress appears 
always so divinely graceful. We feel what an im- 
mense effort is requisite to silence those violent 
emotions which naturally agitate and distract those 
in his situation. We are amazed to find that he 
can command himself so entirely. His firmness, 
at the same time, perfectly coincides with our in- 
sensibility. He makes no demand upon us for that 
more exquisite degree of sensibility which we find, 
and which we are mortified to find, that we do not 
possess. There is the most perfect correspondence 
between his sentiments and ours ; and, on that ac- 
count, the most perfect propriety in his behaviour. 
" Whenever we meet in common life with any 
examples of such heroic magnanimity, we are al- 
ways extremely affected. We are more apt to 
weep and shed tears for such as, in this manner, 
seem to feel nothing for themselves, than those who 
give way to all the the weakness of sorrow. And 
in this particular case, the sympathetic grief of the 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIO PLEASURE. 91 

spectator appears to go beyond the original passion 
in the person principally concerned. The friends of 
Socrates all wept when he drank the last potion, while 
he himself expressed the gayest and most cheerful 
tranquillity. Upon all such occasions, the spectator 
makes no effort, and has no occasion to make any, 
in order to conquer his sympathetic sorrow. He is 
under no fear that it will transport him to any 
thing that is extravagant and improper ; he is 
rather pleased with the sensibility of his own heart, 
and gives way to it with complacence and self-ap- 
probation. He gladly indulges, therefore, the 
most melancholy views which can naturally occur 
to him, concerning the calamity of his friend, for 
whom, perhaps, he never felt so exquisitely before 
the tender and tearful passion of love. But it is quite 
otherwise with the person principally concerned. 
He is obliged, as much as possible, to turn away his 
eyes from whatever is either naturally terrible or 
disagreeable in his situation. Too serious an atten- 
tion to those circumstances he fears might make so 
violent an impression upon him, that he could no 
longer keep within the bounds of moderation, or 
render himself the object of the complete sympathy 
and approbation of the spectators. He fixes his 
thoughts, therefore, upon those only which are agree- 
able, the applause and admiration which he is about 
to deserve by the heroic magnanimity of his behavi- 
our. To fee J that he is capable of so noble and ge- 
nerous an effort, to feel that he can act in this 



92 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

dreadful situation, as he would desire to act, ani- 
mates and transports him with joy, and enables 
him to support that triumphant gaiety which seems 
to exult in the victory he thus gains over his mis- 
fortunes." 

The " dull insensibility" here spoken of can be- 
long only to minds which are naturally insensible; 
and with regard to them the laws of sympathy can 
have no reference. The conclusions which Mr. 
Smith draws from this dulness are, therefore, erro- 
neous ; nor is that " magnanimity amidst great 
distress, so divinely graceful" as he imagines. He 
who makes " an immense effort to silence those 
violent emotions which naturally agitate and dis- 
tract those in his situation/' is not the person most 
calculated to excite our sympathy ; and though I 
agree with Mr. Smith, that " we are amazed to 
find that he can command himself so entirely ;*' 
I deny the conclusion which he draws from it, 
namely, that " we are more apt to weep and shed 
tears for such as in this manner feel nothing for 
themselves." On the contrary, our amazement, so 
far from exciting our sympathy, or making us shed 
tears, suppresses the one, and dries up the other. 
Admiration is destructive of all those softer feelings 
which associate with sympathy and love. The 
frailties and weaknesses of minds naturally virtu- 
ous, are the true inspirers of sympathy. We 
cannot sympathize with him whom we admire, 
because we can admire only those who rank above 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 93 

ourselves either in mental or personal accomplish- 
ments. Such accomplishments, however, instead of 
sympathy and affection, excite pride and jealousy. 
s' It is the soft green of the soul," as Mr. Burke says, 
" on which we rest our eyes that are fatigued with 
beholding more glaring objects." I have already ob- 
served, that only kindred natures can sympathize 
with each other ; but there are certain qualities 
which are pleasing to all men, and with which, 
consequently, all men sympathize. The most re- 
markable of these is weakness. We admire strength 
and greatness of mind, but we are conscious of no 
impulse that prompts us to approach and sympa- 
thize with it. Rivalry or emulation is the only pas- 
sion which it can excite, and if we want this ambi- 
tion, we retire from its glare to commune with 
weaknesses and frailties congenial with our own. 
With him who claims not our assistance, who has 
within himself all the resources of which he stands 
in need, and who is too proud and unbending to be 
indebted to others, we cannot sympathize. He has 
no quality that we can love. His unsocial, un- 
bending, uninviting disposition has no claim to 
attract us, none of that yielding amiability of man- 
ners that win the soul, and melt into sympathy the 
most stubborn and inflexible natures. 

But if we really " weep and shed tears for him 
who feels nothing for himself," how can we be told 
that his firmness perfectly coincides with our in- 
sensibility. 



94 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

Besides, whatever is unnatural is, from the very 
constitution of our nature, both offensive and re- 
pulsive to us. When, therefore, we behold a person 
in misfortune endure it with stoic apathy, when we 
perceive that he affects to be unaffected by it, we 
feel instinctively that his inflexibility arises from 
pride, or real insensibility and doggishness of cha- 
racter. With neither of these can we sympathize : 
to pride we have a natural antipathy, and with a 
man of a hardened and indurated mind, we cannot 
enter into that communion of feeling which is the 
soul of sympathy, because we know that he is him- 
self incapable of sympathizing in the woes of others. 
Such a man, however, is more worthy, if not of our 
sympathy, at least of our pity, than he whose feign- 
ed insensibility arises from pride, and the desire of 
gaining <c the applause and admiration" of others ; 
for he adds hypocrisy to pride: he feels pain, but 
he affects not to feel it ; he is in torment, but he 
will not acknowledge it. If this be not hypocrisy, 
I know not what is. Are we then to sympathize 
with a hypocrite, to weep and shed tears with him> 
when we refuse it to those who openly impart to 
us the torments and anxieties that distract their 
mind ? Such an avowal is a compliment to our 
humanity, for no person acknowledges his suffer- 
ings to him whom he knows incapable of sympa- 
thizing in them. Hence it is, that we are communi- 
cative only to those who are communicative them- 



THE SOURCE OP TRAGIC PLEASURE. 95 

selves, who acknowledge to us all the secrets of 
their heart, all the fears, anxieties, weaknesses, 
and frailties to which they are subject. From such 
people we conceal nothing, and our sympathy for 
them, under affliction, extends even to their faults. 
On the contrary, however much we may respect 
and confide in the honour of an individual who 
seeks not our sympathy, who despises the balm of 
human consolation, and seeks for comfort only in 
communing with his own mind, we cannot prevail 
upon ourselves to communicate to him either our 
hopes or fears, our enjoyments or privations, our 
pains or pleasures. From such a man we recede 
by a sort of instinctive impulse, which we can 
neither account for nor controul. 

Mr. Smith and many other writers have, no 
doubt, taken this erroneous theory of sympathy 
from Aristotle, who reproves those tragic writers 
that put whining, exaggerated complaints into the 
mouths of their characters.* 1 Perceiving the pro- 
priety of Aristotle's reproof, they have gone into 
the opposite extreme, and, maintained, that he who 
does not complain at all, is he who is most apt to 
excite our sympathy. Here, however, as in all 
other cases, extremes meet ; and the one extreme 
is as barren of sympathy as the other. No one 
can excite our sympathy who does not appear to 

* Poetic S. xxviii. 



96 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

stand in need of it ; and therefore a perfect cha- 
racter has no business on the stage, because he can 
never acknowledge himself in need of our assis- 
tance. Such an acknowledgement is a confession 
of weakness, and a confession of weakness is 
virtually a confession of imperfection. Perfection 
wants nothing, seeks for nothing, and, therefore, 
neither claims, nor is entitled to sympathy. Hence 
we find, that a perfect character has never succeed- 
ed on the stage, because he has never excited 
either sympathy or interest. It is only he who is 
subject to all the turmoils and impetuosity of the 
passions, to all the weaknesses and imperfections 
of human nature, that can ever create our sympa- 
thy, or interest us in his fate. The most interesting 
character, it is true, is a man endowed by nature 
with a virtuous disposition, but carried away, at the 
same time, by ungovernable passions ; but let him 
only trample upon these passions and return to his 
original virtuous disposition, and we take no further 
interest in him ; — we find he is no object of that 
sympathy, which, to the credit of human nature be 
it spoken, we are unwilling to bestow where it is not 
wanted. But, though such a man, while he yielded 
to his passions, was more interesting than an evil- 
disposed man, actuated by the same passions, the 
most abandoned character would be more inte- 
resting than him, after his return to virtue, pro- 
vided that, with all his abandonment of prin- 



THE SOURCE OP TRAGIC PLEASURE. 97 

ciple, he was subject to passion. There is that in 
the nature of passion, which leads us to believe, 
(and our belief is well founded) that whoever 
yields to it acts blindly at the moment, whether 
he be naturally a good or an evil man. Virtue 
and vice have no affinity whatever with passion, 
the former consisting in an inclination to what is 
good, the latter in a propensity to what is evil. 
Passion, however, is neither good nor evil, virtuous 
nor vicious, in itself, though yielding to it is 
sometimes a vice, and resisting it sometimes a 
virtue. It is the act of volition which we exer- 
cise, in consenting to the gratification of cer- 
tain passions that constitutes vice, for the im- 
pulse that prompts us to it can have nothing of 
evil in it, though it prompts to evil. If the im- 
pulse itself were evil, God would be the author of 
evil, because we are so constituted as to be subject 
to these impulses. The virtuous and the vicious 
are, therefore, equally subject to the dominion of 
passion, and when it proves too powerful for them, 
it leads them blindly along, and extinguishes the 
light of reason at the moment. Hence it is, that 
we have some pity even for the evil-minded man, 
when we see him obeying, not the dictates of his 
natural and habitual villainy, but those passions 
to which we are ourselves subject, and to which, 
perhaps, we would have equally yielded, had we 
been in his situation. In fact, passion, so far from 

H 



98 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

making a villain appear more detestable, makes 
him appear infinitely more amiable. It shews us, 
that, with all his abandonment of principle, he is 
still one of ourselves, subject to the same weak- 
nesses, governed by the same impulses. Passion, 
therefore, humanizes him, makes him approach 
nearer to us, and gives him so strong a claim 
upon our sympathy, that we cannot totally with- 
hold it from him. There can, therefore, be no 
sympathy where there is no passion to excite it : 
deprive this evil-minded man of all his passions, 
teach him to act the villain coolly and deliberately, 
let him always be governed by selfish and interested 
motives, but never yield, in the slightest degree, to 
the influence of passion, and we instantly spurn 
him from our presencer: — he is no longer the object 
of our commiseration or pity. 

Neither virtue nor vice, then, can excite our 
sympathy without passion, though we continue to 
respect the one, and to detest the other ; but, 
wherever passion appears, no degree of vice can 
prevent it from softening our nature, and exciting 
our commiseration or pity ; whereas, in its ab- 
sence, no degree of virtue can affect or move 
us. Hence it is, that the evil characters in the 
Paradise Lost, are more interesting than the good 
characters. Throughout the Paradise Lost, says 
Mr. Payne Knight, iC the infernal excite more 
interest than the celestial personages, because their 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 99 

passions and affections are more violent and ener- 
getic."* 

How then can it be maintained, that, for him 
who makes "no demand upon us for that more 
exquisite degree of sensibility which we find, and 
which we are mortified to find that we do not 
possess,-^ we are more apt to weep and shed 
tears/' — for him who thus appears to be placed 
totally above the influence of passion, — than for the 
man whose passions and frailties give him the 
strongest claim to our sympathy? It is surprising, 
at the same time, that Mr. Smith should say, " his 
firmness perfectly corresponds with our insensibi- 
lity," with that want of "sensibility which we 
find, and which we are sorry to find that we do not 
possess," and say, a few lines after, that, " we are 
more apt to weep and shed tears," for him, " than 
for those who give way to all the weaknesses of 
sorrow." If we are insensible to his suffering, — 
if we find, to our mortification, that we possess no 
sensibility, how is it we happen " to weep and 
shed tears ?" Is not this weeping, and are not 

* Analytical Inquiry into the Principles of Taste. — P. 362. 

t It is highly unphilosophic to suppose, that the want of any 
thing can mortify us, which is not natural to us 5 and, considered 
in a moral point of view, the idea is unworthy the great Architect 
of Nature. The individual who regrets the want of any virtue, 
proves that the virtue is natural to his species, though not to 
himself. 

h2 



100 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

these tears, some proof of sensibility ? If we " make 
no effort, and have no occasion to make any, in 
order to conquer our sympathetic sorrow," for this 
stoic personage which Mr. Smith describes, how 
can we be told, that " we often struggle to keep 
down our sympathy with the misfortunes of others ?" 
If we " are rather pleased with the sensibility of 
our own heart, and give way to it with compla- 
cence and self approbation," how can it be affirmed, 
that " we give way to it only when we can no 
longer avoid it ?" In a word, how can we be re- 
proached with " our dull insensibility to the mis- 
fortunes of others," and of our " mortification" in 
discovering this insensibility ? 

Mr. Smith seems to have been led into all these 
inconsistencies from not distinguishing the conduct 
which a person in distress should pursue in pre- 
sence of those, with whose dispositions towards 
him he is already acquainted, from that which he 
should observe in the presence of strangers. In 
the presence of the latter, I agree with him, that 
we sympathize more with the man who makes an 
effort to silence those violent emotions which agi- 
tate and distract him, than with him who whines 
and laments, and claims our sympathy before we 
have an opportunity of knowing who he is, or what 
he is, or whether his misfortunes be merited, and 
the just reward of his villainy, or have resulted 
from the machinations of the crafty against un- 
guarded and unsuspecting innocence. It serves 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 101 

no purpose, that he makes us acquainted with the 
sad history of his misfortunes : this knowledge, to 
have its proper effect upon us, must be derived 
from some other source. We know that, whether 
he tell us truth or falsehood, we cannot credit 
him without rendering ourselves liable to impo- 
sition, and this reflection destroys our sympathy. 
If he does not give himself a good character, we 
see no cause of sympathy : if he does, we instantly 
begin to suspect that the truth is not in him, be- 
cause merit is seldom eloquent in its own praise : 
so that, let him act or speak as he will, be has 
equally little chance of exciting our sympathy, 
though it is possible for him to excite our pity. 
His only chance, therefore, is to remain silent, like 
those beggars whom we sometimes meet in the 
streets, who address us only by their looks, but 
whose expression and cast of countenance have 
frequently more eloquence in them than the sus- 
pected representations and rejected addresses of 
those who give the most pitiful history of their 
misfortunes. 

But how erroneous is it to confound such peo- 
ple with those who address themselves to their 
friends and enemies. Such people, to act either 
consistently or naturally, must very evidently ex- 
press their feelings and sentiments to each of them, 
not only differently from what they would towards 
strangers, but differently from each other. He 
who has a hundred friends, finds himself placed 



102 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

in a different relation to each of them. Some are 
above him, some are his equals, and some rank 
below him in society. To each of those who are his 
superiors, he must express his feelings, sentiments, 
and grievances in a very different manner, because 
the degree of rank which they hold above him, are 
not only different, but the relations by which he is 
connected with them, are different also. Add to 
this, the knowledge he possesses of their tempers, 
characters, and degrees of sympathies. If it be 
inconsistent to expect, that he would treat them all 
in the same manner, and pay no regard, either to 
their natural tempers, or the relations in which he 
stands towards them, how much more must it be 
to expect, that he would treat them all, without 
distinction, like strangers with whom he is con- 
nected by no tie, or relation whatever. Let us 
grant him, then, as much greatness and magna- 
nimity of mind as we will, he certainly acts con- 
trary to the laws of human nature, and to the 
influences exercised over us by the different rela- 
tions which connect us with different individuals, 
if he treat them all equally alike, if he hold him- 
self equally independent of them all, claim no 
share in their sympathy, and pay no regard to the 
degrees of friendship or attention which he ex- 
perienced from them, individually, from his first 
acquaintance with them to the present moment. 
If, to treat them all equally alike, and hold him- 
self equally independent of them all, equally re- 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 103 

gardless of their commiseration and sympathy, be, 
what Mr. Smith calls " magnanimity ," I can only 
say, either that he is mistaken in his use of the term, 
or, that magnanimity is the most worthless, and 
the most despicable acquirement of the mind. I 
call it an acquirement, because nature could have 
never generated such a monster : it is the sa- 
vage offspring of ingratitude and stoic apathy — 
that apathy which never felt the sweet communion 
of kindred feelings, which never sympathized in 
the woes of others. The same observations hold 
good with* regard to our equals and inferiors, but 
particularly the former. To treat either of them 
like strangers, or to confound the relations by 
which we are connected with them, is to divest 
ourselves of all those influences and impressions 
which nature intended us to obey, and which we 
always do obey while we retain any vestige of the 
common nature of man. 

But if, to act naturally, we must act differently 
towards all our friends and acquaintances, it is 
evident that our conduct towards those who are 
our enemies, or, in any manner accessary to our 
misfortunes, must be equally so. Indeed, the dif- 
ference is here much greater than in the former 
case. It is only when the unfortunate man comes 
in contact with any of those who have been in- 
strumental in leading him into distress, that those 
"violent bursts of passion," of which Mr. Smith 



104 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

speaks, can properly break forth. To be silent on 
such an occasion, to look upon the cause and 
author of our misfortunes with perfect sangfroid, 
to shew him that we neither claim his sympathy, 
nor feel sensible of the injuries which we have 
experienced at his hands, is not only contrary to 
the laws of our nature, but contrary to all those 
feelings and emotions that constitute true great- 
ness and magnanimity of mind. He who does 
not act like a man, may call himself magnani- 
mous if he will ; but his magnanimity is the mere 
insensibility of a stoic. Magnanimity cannot 
be opposed to the laws of human nature ; or, if it 
be, let it be no longer called a virtue. Every 
man should act according to the situation in which 
he is placed, and the, influences which are exer- 
cised over him at the moment. " There is a time 
to laugh, and a time to cry," and he who can nei- 
ther laugh nor cry at any time, who is always the 
same, in whatever situation he is placed, who 
yields to no influence, and tramples upon every 
impulse and law of his nature, may seek, as much 
as he please, to v gain "the applause and admira- 
tion which he is about to deserve by the heroic 
magnanimity of his behaviour ;" or, rather, the 
unmerited applause which Mr. Smith is willing to 
bestow upon him ; but he must never hope to rank 
with th° b e who, while they gain the esteem and 
admiration of the world, feel, alternately, all the 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 105 

passions, emotions, and sympathies, which the cir- 
cumstances and situations in which they are placed 
are calculated to excite. 

In fact, he whose actions differ most from the 
general nature of man, is, of all others, the most 
unlit to excite sympathy or commiseration of any 
kind. In refusing, however, such a man our 
sympathy, we act justly and naturally, because 
such a man is a misanthropist. He who possesses 
the social virtues will always adhere closely to the 
manners of the world. We cannot differ essentially 
in our conduct from tlmse for whom we have any 
regard, and to whom we find ourselves connected 
by the laws of a common nature. It is only he 
vyho looks down upon man with contempt, and who 
either regrets that he is of the same species, or be- 
lieves -himself possessed of some redeeming virtues 
that place him above them, that can divest him- 
self of the social principle, and disregard every 
natural impulse by which they are governed. Such 
a man may deem himself a sage, a saint, or a phi- 
losopher; but the tragic poet who would bring 
him forward on the stage, and hope to astonish us 
by the severity and inflexibility of his virtues, can 
have little hope of success, or, at least, if he in- 
dulge such a hope, he will find himself disappointed. 
Dr. Blair, in his Lecture on Tragedy, has the 
following just and sensible observations on this 
subject. 



106 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

" Mixed characters, such as we meet with in 
the world, afford the most proper field for display- 
ing-, without any bad effects on morals, the vicis- 
situdes of life, and they interest us the more deeply, 
as they display emotions or passions which we 
have all been conscious of. When such persons 
fall into distress through the vices of others, the 
subject may be very pathetic ; but it is always 
more instructive when a person has been himself 
the cause of his misfortune, and when his misfor- 
tune is occasioned by the violence of passion, or 
by some weakness incidental to human nature ; 
such subjects both dispose us to the deepest sym- 
pathy, and administer useful warnings to us for 
our own conduct." 

On the whole, what is real magnanimity of cha- 
racter in the presence of strangers, is perfect sto- 
icism and insensibility in the presence either of 
our friends or enemies. When Macduff hears 
that his wife and children are slaughtered in his 
absence, Shakspeare makes him express himself in 
all the bitterness of grief, and all the vindictive- 
ness of resentment ; but if Mr. Smith's theory of 
sympathy be well founded, he should have sup- 
ported this misfortune without a murmur, as it is 
only by this " heroic magnanimity of behaviour" 
he could " deserve the applause and admiration " 
of mankind. Whether Shakspeare or Mr. Smith 
was the best judge, and whether we should sym- 



THE SOURCE OF TRACIC PLEASURE. 107 

pathise more with Macduff had he expressed nei- 
ther grief nor resentment on hearing of the de- 
struction of his wife and children, than we do at 
present, I leave the reader to determine. 

If the distinction which I have made between 
the conduct proper to be observed by the victims 
of distress towards friends, enemies, and strangers, 
be founded in truth, it applies particularly to the 
theatre. Here every character addresses himself, 
to some person who is immediately or remotely 
related to him, either by accident or design. The 
audience is not supposed to be present, or, at least, 
every character acts and speaks as if there were 
no audience. All the parties, accordingly, attend 
only to their own mutual affections or antipathies, 
friendships or enmities ; and, consequently, each 
of them should act or speak according to the in- 
fluence of the moment, the situation in which he 
is placed, or the person or persons to whom he ad- 
dresses himself. Mr. Smith's heroic magnanimity 
has, therefore, very seldom an opportunity of dis- 
playing itself on the theatre. The characters are 
composed of superiors, equals, or inferiors ; and they 
have all some object in addressing each other. To 
remain uninfluenced by such an object, — to express 
their feelings and sentiments as if they were stran- 
gers to each other, — to spurn the sympathy of friends, 
and feel unmoved by the treachery of enemies, 
would, so far from being magnanimity, be the most 
hardened insensibility. According to Mr. Smith's 



108 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

theory, no person can sympathise with Lear. He 
gives full vent to his passions as they rise in his 
mind, and evinces, throughout, a total want of that 
magnanimity which is " so divinely graceful." He 
makes no effort to suppress his feelings, or to con- 
ceal his griefs ; and yet I am doubtful whether we 
should have sympathized more with him had he 
done so, than we do when we hear him unbosom 
himself in the following pathetic manner. 



Filial ingratitude ! 



Is it not as if this mouth should tear this hand 
For lifting food to't ? But I'll punish home ; 
No, I will weep no more. In such a night, 
To shut me out! Pour on, I will endure. 
In such a night as this ! O Regan, Gonerill, 
Your own kind father, whose frank heart gave all. 
O ! that way madness lies ; let me shun that j 
No more of that. 

Whoever could hear Lear thus express himself 
without being affected, must be "fit for treasons, 
stratagems, and spoils." Yet there is not an expres- 
sion that escapes him but shews his weakness, his 
want of fortitude to combat with the evils by which 
he was encompassed, his total want of that " mag- 
nanimity amidst great distress," that " immense 
effort to silence those violent emotipns which na- 
turally distract those in his situation ;" in a word, 
of that command over himself, which alone, ac- 
cording to Mr. Smith, makes the most powerful 
appeal to our sympathy. If we are more apt to 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 109 

weep and shed tears for such as seem to feel no- 
thing for themselves than for those who give way 
to all the weakness of sorrow," why do we so en- 
tirely and completely sympathize with the weak- 
ness of Lear ? Would our sympathy be greater if 
he had a more stubborn nature, a nature that ren- 
dered him insensible to the ingratitude of his chil- 
dren ? I doubt it much, and so, I believe, would 
Mr. Smith, if the question had been put to him. 
In fact, if Lear had. not so lively and acute a sense 
of his children's ingratitude, and if this sense had 
not taken such strong possession of his mind as 
to render him incapable of every manly effort to 
contend either with the passions by which he was 
distracted, or the difficulties by which he was sur- 
rounded, in a word, if he had not been the weakest 
of all men, and the best natured of all men, we 
would not sympathize with him as we do, more 
than with any other tragic character whatever. 
Lear is, perhaps, the greatest example of human 
weakness which stands upon record in the history 
of the stage. His good-nature was the effect of 
his weakness, or rather, perhaps, his weakness was 
the effect of his good-nature ; for it is certain, that 
good-nature is seldom found connected with the 
sterner and more austere virtues, particularly with 
that magnanimity which is so graceful in the eyes 
of Mr. Smith. Good-nature is chiefly to be found 
in those weak, tender, and sympathetic minds, 



110 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

whose happiness seems to consist in the happiness 
of others. It is this weakness, however, this ten- 
derness, this good-nature, this " milk of human 
kindness," that appears, of all other virtues, the 
most amiable and the most interesting to us, and, 
consequently, we are less disposed to check our 
sympathies when we behold such virtue in dis- 
tress. Whoever is most apt to indulge in sympathy 
for the woes of others, is also most apt to excite it 
for his own. 

It is evident, then, that neither joy nor comedy 
imparts such heartfelt pleasure as we derive from 
Tragic representations, — from the luxury of sympa- 
thizing in sorrows not our own ; and it is equally 
evident, that the softer affections of the heart are 
more pleasing, more attractive, and more apt to 
excite our sympathies, than the sterner and severer 
virtues, however high they may stand in the esti- 
mation of the world, and however calculated 
to excite our admiration and surprise. The latter 
virtues are generally the result of education or 
early associations, and may, therefore, be more 
properly called virtues of the head than of the 
heart ; but the former are the offspring of nature 
alone, and cannot be eradicated from the heart of 
which they have once taken possession, though 
they may be considerably influenced and deter- 
mined in their operations by the influence of edu- 
cation, situations, and circumstances. 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. Ill 



CHAP. VI. 



Examination of Mr. Burke and Mr. Knight's Theories. 



Burke, in his " Sublime and Beautiful," has 
many just and profound observations on the source 
of Tragic Pleasure ; but, like all other theories on 
the subject, the one which he has adopted applies 
not to the remote, original, but to the immediate, or 
proximate cause, or rather causes, of this pleasure. 
When I say they apply to the immediate or proxi- 
mate causes, I do not mean that they unfold even 
these ; but that he seems to have confined himself 
to what he considered the immediate agency which 
produced the effect. In the first place, he very 
justly rejects the supposition which makes this 
pleasure arise from " the comfort which we re- 
ceive in considering, that so melancholy a story is 
no more than a fiction ;" and he equally rejects 
that which makes it arise from " the contempla- 
tion of our own freedom from the evils which we 
see represented." The reasons which he assigns for 



112 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

rejecting these theories are worth quoting. " I 
am afraid," he says, " it is a practice much too 
common, in inquiries of this nature, to attribute 
the cause of feelings which merely arise from the 
mechanical construction of our bodies, or from 
the natural frame and constitution of our minds, 
to certain conclusions of the reasoning faculty on 
the objects presented to us, for I should imagine, 
that the influence of reason, in producing our pas- 
sions, is nothing near so extensive as it is com- 
monly believed." 

It is curious to perceive so profound and meta- 
physical a writer venturing to acknowledge his 
suspicions, that " the influence of reason, in pro- 
ducing our passions, is nothing near so extensive 
as it is commonly believed." Had Burke ventured 
a step further, and said decidedly, that reason had 
no influence whatever in producing our passions, 
he would have asserted a fact which no weight of 
authority could disprove, however bold and scep- 
tical it might appear to those who have not learn- 
ed to distinguish between reason and feeling. In 
fact, the only influence which reason possesses 
over our feelings, is that of moderating, or supress- 
ing them altogether. Accordingly, a man who, 
while he witnesses a scene of distress, begins to 
reflect on his own happiness in being free from it, 
is infinitely less moved, and less interested in the 
fate of the suffering victim, than he who, while 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 113 

he indulges in all those feelings which the scene 
before him is calculated to excite, makes no re- 
flection whatever, but what unconsciously arises 
from his sympathy with the distressed. 

Burke does not confine the pleasure derived 
from Tragic sources to the stage. Real distress, 
he thinks, is a source of still greater pleasure than 
the mere imitation of it ; and hence he infers, that 
the nearer the imitation approaches the reality, 
the more powerful is its effect. In no case, how- 
ever, does he admit imitative distress to produce 
equal pleasure with that which it represents. 
° Choose," he says, " a day to represent the most 
sublime and affecting tragedy we have ; and ap- 
point the most favourite actors, spare no cost upon 
the scenes and decorations ; unite the greatest ef- 
forts of poetry, painting, and music; and when 
you have collected your audience, just at the mo- 
ment when their minds are erect with expectation, 
let it be reported that a state criminal of high 
rank is to be executed in the adjoining square; in 
a moment the emptiness of the theatre would de- 
monstrate the comparative weakness of the imita- 
tive arts, and proclaim the triumph of real sym- 
pathy."* Here, then, the sole pleasure we receive 
is attributed to sympathy; but, as I have already 
shewn, so far as our pleasure is of a sympathetic 

* Sublime and Beautiful, P. 1. Sec. xv. 
I 



114 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

character, this pleasure does not arise from a 
sympathetic emotion, but is the sympathetic emo- 
tion itself. But are we certain that this abandon- 
ment of the theatre is the effect of sympathy ? 
Indeed, there seems to be very strong reasons for 
thinking otherwise ; the strongest of which per- 
haps is, that people of the most tender and sym- 
pathetic natures are not those who go most fre- 
quently to witness executions. I believe there are 
few people of exquisite feelings who can endure 
such spectacles, and yet, where are we to look for 
sympathy if not among them ? Besides, why is our 
propensity to behold executions so generally looked 
upon as a reproach to us, if it arise from sympathy ? 
Why are even those who delight in such spectacles 
unwilling to avow their propensity ? Why should 
we confide more in a person to whom such scenes 
are insupportable, than in him who goes to an ex- 
ecution with as keen an appetite as he does to his 
dinner? These, certainly, seem to be intuitive 
proofs, that we look upon such men as persons of 
no sympathy whatever. It is possible, however, 
as will hereafter appear, to possess sympathy, and 
yet feel inclined to witness executions ; but it is not 
possible to possess it in any very high degree. Mr. 
Knight ascribes the abandonment of the theatre, 
in the case supposed by Burke, to curiosity, not to 
sympathy. " Would not the sudden appearance," 
he says, " of any very renowned foreign chief or 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 115 

potentate in the adjoining square, equally empty 
the benches of the theatre? I apprehend that it 
would, and cannot but suspect, that even a bottle 
conjurer, a flying witch, or any other miraculous 
phenomenon of the kind, being announced with 
sufficient confidence to obtain belief, would have 
the same effect." It is extremely difficult to meet 
with a writer who can avoid contradicting him- 
self; the moment he enters into the arena of pole- 
mics, simply, because in all our controversies, we 
are, in general, more desirous of victory, than of 
the elucidation of what is obscure, or the discovery 
of what is unknown. Mr. Knight takes every 
opportunity of opposing his own opinions to those 
of Burke, though it is difficult to conceive why he 
should have singled him out from all other writers 
on the subject of taste. He tells us himself, that 
his reason for exposing Burke's " philosophical 
absurdities" is, that they have " been since adopt- 
ed by others, and made to contribute so largely to 
the propagation of bad taste." It would be diffi- 
cult to point out any writer, whose philosophical 
principles are less calculated to promote " bad 
taste," than. Burke's ; for, as Mr. Knight himself 
acknowledges, " his feelings were generally right, 
even where his judgment was most wrong." A 
man's judgment, however, can never be wrong, 
where his feelings are right, unless he depart from 
them, and suffer his judgment to be directed by 

i2 



116 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

that of others. This was not the case with Burke : 
he always thought for himself, and never submitted 
to the bondage of authority, except where autho- 
rity and reason seemed to confirm each other. 
Burke, however, is frequently in error ; but if I 
may now venture an opinion, which I shall prove 
in another place, Mr. Knight is more frequently 
so ; and, what is worse, his errors are of a much 
more dangerous character, and more calculated 
" to contribute to the propagation of bad taste." 
This truth I hope to make evident in my work on 
the " Sublime and Beautiful ;" not that I intend 
to advocate Burke's principles, nor yet, that I feel 
a desire to expose Mr. Knight's ; but that truth 
requires of me to point out the different influences 
which the adoption of their systems would have on 
the cultivation of taste. I admire Mr. Knight's in- 
tellectual powers and energy ; but he is always too 
rapid to be correct, and his feelings seem to be of 
too energetic a character to discriminate the lighter 
shades and more delicate affections of human na- 
ture, qualities which Burke possessed in a very emi- 
nent degree. In ascribing the abandonment of the 
*ieatre, in the present instance, to curiosity, Mr. 
Knight abandons the very first principle on which 
he founds Tragic pleasure. The fact is, that he 
sets out, like Burke, with ascribing the pleasure 
to sympathy ; but the moment he came in con- 
tact with the latter, he forgot that he had ever 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 117 

made sympathy the cause of the pleasure. He 
seems to have been under an impression, that 
Burke and he could never happen to think alike, 
or, rather, that whatever theory the former adopt- 
ed, it must necessarily be erroneous, and that he, of 
necessity, was bound to adopt a different one. Ac- 
cordingly, when he found Burke ascribing Tragic 
pleasure to sympathy, he contradicts him, and 
ascribes it to curiosity, forgetting, that he had, in 
the very preceding page, ascribed it to sympathy 
himself. I shall quote his own words. Ct When 
we see others suffer, we naturally suffer with them, 
though not in the same degree, nor even in the 
same modes ; for those sufferings which we should 
most dread personally to endure, we delight to 
see exhibited, or represented, though not actually 
endured by others ; and, nevertheless, this delight 
certainly arises from sympathy." Who could think, 
that, in the very next page, he should attribute as 
much of the effect to curiosity as to sympathy, 
simply because he wished to break a lance with 
Burke? Indeed, from the instances he has given 
of the " bottle conjurer," and " flying witch," he 
appears to refer the entire of the effect to curiosity 
alone. 

But what is this curiosity, to which Mr. Knight, 
and so many other writers, ascribe such wonderful 
effects? In my opinion, those who ascribe effects 
to curiosity, ascribe them to nothing at all ; and if 



118 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

so, they must necessarily be wrong, for ex nihilo 
nihil Jit. Curiosity is either a feeling, an idea, or 
an act of volition within us, or it is something 
without us which creates feelings, ideas, or voli- 
tions within us. It must be one or other of these, 
because these embrace every thing in nature, of 
which we have any knowledge. Let us see, then, 
which of these it is, and we shall be better able to 
perceive, whether it be as prolific in its effects as it 
is generally supposed. 

Curiosity cannot be volition, because we may 
will to do a good or an evil act, which we have 
done frequently before. This cannot be the effect 
of curiosity, because it has novelty always for its 
object. And even when we will to do something, or 
to see something, which we have never done or 
seen before, the propensity which impels us to it, 
is different from that act of mind which indulges 
the propensity, as this act may be exercised in 
opposition to, as well as in accordance with, the 
propensity. A man may will on the side of reason, 
as well as on the side of his propensities, when 
they happen to be at variance; so that he may will 
to do what he has no propensity or inclination to 
do ; and he may will not to do, what he has a 
strong propensity for doing. If curiosity, then, 
be any thing within us, it must be a feeling, or an 
idea. Now, all our feelings and ideas are pro- 
duced by something without us, for we cannot per- 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 119 

ceive, unless there be something to be perceived ; 
and it is this something, consequently, that creates 
the perception, or idea, in us. Neither can we 
feel, unless there be something to make an impres- 
sion upon us, so that, whether curiosity be a feel- 
ing or an idea, it must, in either case, be an effect 
produced by. something without us. The effects, 
therefore, that are said to result from curiosity, 
should be attributed, not to any principle or fa- 
culty of our nature, which we designate by that 
name, but to the external influence by which it is 
produced. All our feelings, like that of curiosity, 
are simple effects, or impressions made upon us ; 
and, consequently, the causes by which they are 
produced, are the real causes of the influences 
which they possess over us. According to the de- 
grees of energy with which these causes act upon 
us, we are, more or less powerfully prompted to 
action, so that the feeling which we call curiosity, 
is strong or weak according to the strength or 
weakness of the influence by which it is excited. 
This would not be the case, if curiosity were a 
principle or faculty in our nature which could act 
upon us, independently of any external influence. 
The fact is, that curiosity is the mere creature of 
chance : it is alive to day and dead to-morrow. Its 
existence depends on circumstances, and when 
these circumstances do not occur, curiosity is to- 
tally extinct. Why, then, do we attribute to curi- 



120 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

osity, what we ought to attribute to the circum- 
stance by which it is immediately excited ? for, if 
this circumstance did not exist, neither would the 
curiosity be felt. The truth of these observations 
will appear obvious from the case before us. Mr. 
Knight says, that the report of " any very re- 
nowned foreign chief, or potentate, appearing in the 
neighbouring square, would equally empty the 
benches." Now, if it be mere curiosity that emp- 
ties the benches, the report of any foreigner having 
just come over, and appearing in the square, would 
produce the same effect, because the one would 
be as novel an object as the other. Yet, no per- 
son would quit the theatre to go see a person of 
whom he never heard any thing before, though it 
is obvious that such a person would be a more 
novel object than he of whom we had some know- 
ledge by public report. The sight of a novel ob- 
ject has, therefore, little influence, over us, so far 
as regards its mere novelty: it is some circum- 
stance connected with the object, and of which we 
have already some knowledge, that creates the 
interest, and it is to this circumstance, not to the 
mere curiosity which it excites, that we must at- 
tribute the effect, or, in other words, the impres- 
sion made upon us. The fact is, as will hereafter 
appear, that whatever produces a strong sensation 
in us, gives us pleasure, and therefore we feel no 
desire whatever of seeing a strange object, unless 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE, 121 

we antecedently know, that this object is calcu- 
lated to produce a strong sensation. 

The pleasure which we derive from Tragic repre- 
sentations cannot, therefore, be attributed to curi- 
osity or sympathy, both of which are modifications 
of feeling, produced by external influences, but to 
a certain law in our nature, that strongly attaches 
us to all powerful sensations, where the pleasure is 
not impeded by three circumstances, which shall 
be hereafter mentioned. 

One of the instances produced by Burke him- 
self, clearly shews, that this pleasure does not arise 
from sympathy. " This noble capital," he says, 
" the pride of England and of Europe, I believe 
no man is so strangely wicked as to desire to see 
destroyed by a conflagration, or an earthquake, 
though he should be removed himself to the greatest 
distance from the danger. But suppose such a 
fatal accident happened, what numbers from all 
parts would crowd to see the ruins, and amongst 
them many who would have been content never 
to have seen London in its glory." Surely, we 
cannot suppose, that those who would not wish to 
see London in its glory, would feel any sympathy 
on the occasion ; but supposing they did, an alter- 
ation in the circumstance will prove, that they 
would run equally to see the ruins of London, 
where no sympathy could possibly excite them to 
it. Let us suppose, then, that the legislature 



122 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

deemed it necessary to remove the seat of govern- 
ment to some other part of England, that they 
built another city, equal to it in extent and ac- 
commodation, that they removed all the inha- 
bitants of London to this new city, and gave 
them the same rights, privileges, and advantages 
which they enjoyed before; that after having thus 
completed their views, they found it conducive to 
the national prosperity of the country to destroy 
London, and, accordingly, committed it to the 
flames, having first removed from it every thing of 
value, either to the nation at large, or to the citizens 
in particular : I would ask, whether, after every 
thing having been thus arranged for the general 
good, the ruins of London would not still be a 
spectacle capable of attracting thousands of spec- 
tators, — whether those who came to see it, in the 
case supposed by Burke, would not now come to 
see it also, though there could be no motive for 
sympathy whatever, as in this case, there is not 
an individual with whom we could sympathize. 
Every citizen is as happy as before, and, therefore, 
we have nothing to sympathize with but mute 
walls, demolished houses, and public buildings in 
ruins, which, as they can neither feel pain, nor 
respond to our sympathies, cannot, consequently, 
excite them. The pleasure, then, resulting from 
the view of these ruins could not be the effect of 
sympathy, nor, as I have already shewn, could it 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 123 

be the effect of curiosity, for those who spent their 
life in London, and were perfectly acquainted with 
every street in it, would be more powerfully im- 
pelled to contemplate its ruins, than the ruins of 
some insignificant village which they never saw, 
or heard of before, though the latter must neces- 
sarily be a matter of greater curiosity to them 
than the former. 

Neither curiosity nor sympathy, then, can be 
the cause or original source of Tragic pleasure. As 
Mr. Knight, however, forgetting that he had ever 
traced any part of this pleasure, either to sympathy 
or curiosity, adopts a new theory on the subject, 
it is but proper to enquire, whether, in ascending 
to a higher source, he has discovered that myste- 
rious fountain, of which we are in pursuit. 

After getting rid of sympathy and curiosity alto- 
gether, having, no doubt, forgot that he had attri- 
buted to them any portion of the pleasure arising 
from Tragic scenes, Mr. Knight adopts a theory, 
totally different from all his predecessors. His 
ideas on the subject seem to be perfectly original, 
at least I could discover no trace of them in any 
former writer. Originality has frequently some 
merit, even when it is unsupported by truth, for it 
requires not only considerable ingenuity, but a 
considerable exercise of mind to arrive at certain 
ideas, though they are ultimately found to be mere 
chimeras of the understanding. The ravings of a 



124 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

man of genius are but little allied to mental im- 
becility. Mr. Knight's theory is ingenious, but 
this is its highest merit ; for the feelings of which 
Tragic pleasure is composed, emanate from a 
much more general cause than that to which he 
traces them. The cause he assigns will certainly 
account for some portion of this pleasure, and so 
will each particular cause assigned by each parti- 
cular writer on the subject ; but, until we disco- 
ver a cause that embraces all the causes by which 
it is produced, we can never discover the primary 
source of which we are in pursuit, and which alone 
will account for the aggregate of pleasures derived 
from Tragic representations, in the same manner 
as the general law of attraction, accounts for all 
the particular laws of motion. Before this general 
law was discovered, the theories of all the ancient 
philosophers, however ingenious, were unavoidably 
erroneous, and so must all theories be, whose bases 
are not as extensive as the superstructures which 
they uphold. 

Mr. Knight derives the pleasure of which we 
are in search from " the energies and violent ef- 
forts displayed in feats of strength, courage, and 
dexterity, or the calm energies of virtue, called 
forth by the exertions of passive fortitude." He 
tells us this is the delight which the Romans took 
in the fights of gladiators, that it is still the 
source of our delight in cock-fighting, bull-bait- 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 125 

ing, bull-feasts, and boxing-matches; and even 
traces to it our propensity to witness the execution 
of criminals. If particular instances of this kind 
could tend to confirm Mr. Knight's theory, he 
might adduce some hundreds more ; but thousands 
of instances would be quoted to no purpose, if it 
can be shewn^ that a part, at least, of the pleasure 
which we enjoy, cannot, by any torture of argu- 
ment or of expression, be traced either to the active 
op passive energies of the mind. The fact, how- 
ever, is, that if even this could not be shewn, than 
which nothing is easier, it will still be found, that 
we never sympathize, in any one instance, with 
energy alone, abstracted from the motives by 
which these energies are called into action ; and 
that our sympathies are influenced by these mo- 
tives a hundred-fold more than by the energies 
themselves. 

If a daring, active, and intrepid villain attack 
three men, and succeed by mere personal strength 
and dexterity to rob them, after a short scuffle, do 
all our sympathies and feelings arise from, or owe 
their existence to, the superior energies exerted by 
this desperado, and do we feel more pleasure in 
seeing him successful, than we would in seeing 
him defeated? I doubt whether any one could 
enjoy such a triumph, except a chip of the same 
block. We sympathize, then, not with energies 
alone, but with motives also; and the interest ex- 



126 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

cited by the latter, is, beyond all comparison, 
greater than the former. This will appear still 
stronger, if we reverse the former case, and sup- 
pose three robbers to attack one honest man. If 
such an individual should prove successful against 
his adversaries, how strongly are our sympathies 
excited in his favour : we seem, by the force of 
sympathetic affection, to assist him in every exer- 
tion of strength which he puts forth : our very 
bodies are unconsciously put in motion ; we recede 
at every blow that is made at him, as if aimed at 
ourselves; we incline forward when his adversaries 
bend beneath his strokes, and seem to invigorate 
his arm by exerting all the energies of our own. 
Every motion in his body produces a similar one 
in ours, without being in the least conscious of the 
offensive and defensive attitudes which we invo- 
luntarily assmrie by the force of sympathetic affec- 
tion. The apparent cause of these strong sympa- 
thies, are the energies which he displays, but the 
least change in the circumstance convinces us, 
that they are not the real cause ; for all our sym- 
pathy for him would immediately vanish, if we 
knew him to be a murderer or highwayman. Every 
change, consequently, in the motives, produces a 
corresponding change in our feelings, so that our 
sympathies are but little influenced by energies or 
exertions, considered abstractedly by themselves. 
If we imagine, however, that we have now a 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 127 

clue to the cause of our pleasure, and that all arises 
from the motives that call our energies into action, 
we will find ourselves mistaken, and that, as Lord 
Kaimes expresses it, on a different occasion, " the 
variety of nature is not so easily reached." The 
motives that engage.men in action have not greater 
influence over us, than the circumstances in which 
they are placed; a fact which will immediately 
appear, if we only change the latter, without 
making any change in the former. If all our 
pleasure arise from the motives, it is obvious, 
that while they remain unchanged, no alteration 
of circumstances can disturb it; but, as every 
change of circumstance increases or diminishes 
the impressions which we feel, though the motives 
remain unchanged, our sympathies cannot be 
solely referred either to the motives or to the cir- 
cumstances, but to the combined influence of both. 
If a robber attack three boys, how much stronger 
is the interest we take in their fate, than in that of 
three men who should happen to be placed in their 
situation, though the motive by which the robber 
was actuated in attacking both, was identically 
the same, namely, to strip them of whatever they 
possessed, and though the motives by which the 
boys would be actuated to defend themselves 
would be the same with the men, namely, the 
preservation of their lives and property. If, instead 
of boys, three aged men, or three helpless females, 



128 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

were attacked, the impressions would assume a 
new character in each; and, in all these cases, 
the impressions made by the energies exerted, con- 
sidered without regard to the circumstances or 
motives, would be scarcely worth taking into con- 
sideration. 

I am also inclined to think, that Mr. Knight is 
mistaken in some of the instances which he has 
quoted in support of his theory, though, if they 
had been all correct, they would have proved no- 
thing, for the reasons I have just now assigned. 
He says, we delight in executions, only because 
we " all delight in beholding exertions of energy, 
and all feel curiosity to know in what modes or 
degrees those exertions can be displayed under 
the awful circumstances of impending death." The 
only energy that can be displayed by him who is 
entering upon eternity, is mental energy, or, what 
Mr. Knight calls " passive fortitude;" for physical 
energies are only exerted by him who hopes to de- 
rive some advantage from the exertion. But mere 
resignation has not the attraction of bringing 
thousands together ; and it might be impossible 
to distinguish, in the human countenance, the for- 
titude or resignation of a man condemned to 
death, from that of a man who lost his entire pro- 
perty at law. If the resignation of both proceed 
from religious impressions, it would present the 
same calm and tranquil aspect in each ; yet no 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 129 

one would go a hundred paces to witness the pas- 
sive fortitude of the one, while thousands would 
go miles to witness the final exit of the other. It 
is not, then, a display of mental fortitude that in- 
duces us to visit an execution, but the awful and 
powerful sensations produced by the circumstances 
in which the criminal is placed, and the terrific 
associations with which it is eternally connected. 
If the fortitude to which Mr. Knight alludes be a 
hardened contempt of death, I trust there are few 
who would sympathize with such blasphemous 
heroism. 

The energies of active and passive fortitude 
are so far from being sufficiently general to sup- 
port Mr. Knight's theory, that he is obliged to ex- 
tend the application of the term to quite an op- 
posite meaning, so that energy becomes, in his 
hands, something with which we are quite unac- 
quainted. " It matters not, indeed," he says, 
" whether these energies be displayed in suffering 
or acting :" accordingly, he makes tender love as 
energetic as the atrocious ambition of Lady Mac- 
beth. I suspect Mr. Knight is mistaken in consi- 
dering love to be an energy; or energy and suf- 
fering to be at all allied with each other. There 
can be no energy in yielding to ah impression 
made upon us; for the impression is made, and 
the emotion which it produces felt, without our 
act or consent. The passion of love is excited in 

K 



130 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

us, not by energies of our own, but by the pre- 
sence of the object which produces the impression ; 
and, so far is the passion from requiring* any energy 
or effort on our part, that we are frequently unable 
to resist it. The only energy we can exert in a 
love affair, is that of resisting the passion ; for, in 
yielding to it, there can be none required : on the 
contrary, it frequently baffles all our energies to 
resist it ; and if that be called an energy which 
we cannot avoid, and which forces itself upon us, 
whether we will or will not, it is certainly an ener- 
gy not in us, but in that invisible power which 
not only triumphs over us, but enchains all the ener- 
gies which we are capable of exerting against it. I 
agree, indeed, withMr. Knight in calling fortitude, 
in suffering, an energy ; but I cannot agree with 
him in calling it " passive fortitude," for to call 
any thing passive an energy, is a contradiction in 
terms. He has been led into this mistake from 
not distinguishing between misfortune, and its in- 
fluence on the mind. The man of fortitude yields 
to misfortune as well as the coward, when he can 
no longer resist it; but then he does not yield to 
its influence. The coward yields to both, and is, 
therefore, perfectly passive. But he who supports 
the same equanimity of mind in adversity as in 
prosperity, cannot be passive, because it requires 
the greatest energies of which human nature is 
capable to resist the influence of adversity so com- 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 131 

pletely as to preserve the soul calm and unruffled 
amidst the severe trials to which it is exposed. 

The adoption of an erroneous theory generally 
leads a writer into inconsistencies and arguments 
that destroy each other : while he has his eye atten- 
tively fixed on the theory which he seeks to esta- 
blish, all his arguments quadrate with each other, 
and though they are erroneous, they are systema- 
tically so ; but in a treatise of any length, the mind 
cannot be so vigilant as to attend always to the 
main proposition or propositions, on which the 
whole theory rests ; and when this happens, it is 
apt to glide insensibly into truth and nature, not 
aware that this adoption of truth is either subver- 
sive of the doctrine which it seeks to establish, or 
at least, that it leads to conclusions which must 
necessarily expose the fallacy on which it rests. 
Mr. Knight, for whose correct taste and critical 
discrimination I profess the highest respect, over- 
turns the entire of his theory on the Source of 
Tragic Pleasures, by an admission which he un- 
warily made in commenting on a passage in Aris- 
totle. " In tragedy," he says, " it is not the actual 
distress, but the motives for which it is endured, 
the exertions which it calls forth, and the senti- 
ments of heroism, fortitude, constancy, or tender- 
ness, which it, in consequence, displays, that pro- 
duce the interest, and awaken all the exquisite and 
delightful thrills of sympathy." Here, then, we 

k2 



13 k 2 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

find many other sources of Tragic Pleasure, be- 
sides the exertion or energy which distress calls 
forth ; and, what is completely subversive of all 
that he has written on the subject, these sources 
lead us to innumerable others, in which no trace 
of energy can be discovered. If, according to 
himself, sentiments of heroism, fortitude, con- 
stancy, and tenderness, be sources of Tragic Plea- 
sure, so must also sentiments of generosity, pity, 
resignation, mildness, sensibility, sympathy, subli- 
mity, fear, hope, joy, sorrow, and all the passions 
that ever agitated the human breast. Instead, 
then, of confining Tragic Pleasures to the display 
of strong energies, innumerable other sources are 
disclosed to us, from which this pleasure may pro- 
ceed, in many of which, the characteristic feature 
is absence of energy, as fear, mildness, sorrow, re- 
signation, and all the passive affections of the hu- 
man breast. Besides, if it be not the actual dis- 
tress that moves us, but the motives for which it is 
endured, what energy can there be in motives ? All 
motives have their existence independent of us. If 
I go and fight the enemies of my country, my mo- 
tive for doing so is to defend its rights and liberties 
against foreign usurpation ; but this motive has 
its existence independent of me, and would con- 
tinue to exist whether I fought or staid at home. 
I was not accessary to the attempt made on the 
liberties of my country: it was not brought about 



THR SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 133 

by my contrivance ; and therefore I had no con- 
cern in it; but still it is the motive that leads me 
to action, and it would be a motive even though 
I neglected to perform the duty which it required 
at my hands. There can be no energy, then, in 
motives, because there is nothing in them in which 
we can claim a share, and, consequently, the inte- 
rest which they excite cannot be ascribed to ener- 
gy. Mr. Knight himself admits this truth after- 
wards, not reflecting, that it was in direct opposi- 
tion to what he here asserts. His theory, as we 
have already seen, consists in deriving all our Tra- 
gic Pleasures from the display of strong energies 
or exertions; andtodothis more effectually, he tells 
ns, that the interest excited in many of the scenes 
in Shylock, does not arise from his hatred or ma- 
lignity, but the energies which resulted from them. 
The pleasure, then, does not arise from the cause, 
but from the effect ; though we are told above, that 
it is not the effect, but the cause or motives that 
awaken our sympathies. A similar contradiction 
occurs where Mr. Knight traces the pleasure we 
derive from witnessing executions, not to the suf- 
ferings endured, in which, he says, " we take no 
delight, but to the heroism or gallantry of the per- 
son executed." How can we reconcile this to the 
assertion, that " it is not the actual distress, but 
the motives for which it is endured, that produce 
the interest." At one time we are told it is the 



184 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

motive that affects us ; at another, that it is the 
heroism and energy elicited by the motive. Such 
are the inconsistencies that necessarily cling to all 
erroneous theories. 

I know of no theory that can account for the 
interest excited by Lear's madness. It is not, 
surely, the energy which it displays that produces 
this interest, for it was the result of weakness, 
not of energy. Had Lear more fortitude of mind 
to endure his misfortunes, he would not have 
yielded to lunacy, and, therefore the most strained 
reasoning cannot associate it with energy or he- 
roism of mind. Yet, it is infinitely more interest- 
ing than the heroism of Macbeth, and even in the 
latter, it is not his courage or heroism that affects 
us at all, but the strong agitation of mind to which 
he was constantly a victim. Is there any thing in 
all Macbeth that excites a deeper interest than the 
following celebrated passage ? 

Is this a dagger which I see before me, 

The handle towards my hand ? Come let me clutch thee : 

I have thee not, and yet I see thee still. 

Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible 

To feeling as to sight ? Or art thou but a 

A dagger of the mind ; a false creation, 

Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain ? 

I see thee yet in form as palpable 

Aw this which now I draw. 

Thou marshallest me the way that I was going - 7 

And such an instrument I was to use. 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 135 

„ „ . , I see thee still, 

And on thy blade and dudgeon, gouts of blood, 
Which was not so before. 

Here the whole interest is excited by the fears 
and terrors of Macbeth ; for how attribute energy 
to a man whose fears create images or instruments 
of destruction, that existed only in his own mind ? 
Yet these fears are more interesting to us than the 
boldest display of personal courage and mental 
energy, or the noblest descriptions of the " dignity 
of human nature." 



136 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 



CHAP. VIL 



Whether imaginary, produce, at any time, a more pow* 
erful impression than real, distress f and, if so, under 
what circumstances can such an effect take place ? 



I have had several times occasion to observe, that 
the emotions produced by real objects, circum- 
stances, and situations, and consequently, by real 
distress, are more intense — more strongly felt — 
than those caused by objects or circumstances that 
owe their existence to the mind. In the foregoing 
chapter, however, I called the universality of this 
assertion into doubt, and shewn, that it is not 
sympathy that induces us to abandon the theatre 
in order to witness an execution. It will, there- 
fore, be proper to examine this subject a little far- 
ther, and ascertain, whether imaginary distress 
produce, at any time, a more intense sensation 
than that which arises from real suffering. If so, 
it will be necessary to ascertain when, and under 
what particular circumstances, the copy makes a 
more powerful impression than the original. The 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 137 

first part of our enquiry can be determined by 
experience alone, and admits of no reasoning 
whatever. If we discover, from our own feelings, 
that imaginary distress produces, at any time, a 
more powerful sympathy than real suffering, no 
speciousness of reasoning can disprove the fact : 
if sympathy with the latter, be invariably felt the 
stronger, all arguments would be absurd, that 
would attempt to prove the contrary. Feeling, and 
feeling only, can decide in both cases. What, 
then, do our feelings tell us ? 

" A prince," says the author of Lettres sur V Ima- 
gination, " not less distinguished by the sweetness 
of his character, and the amiability of his mind, 
than by his passion for the fine arts, observed to me 
lately, without being able to accuse me, I believe, of 
being less sensible than others, " I am frequently 
dissatisfied with myself, in finding that I am more 
keenly affected by a beautiful Tragic scene, or 
fine piece of music, than I would have been by 
the very misfortune which this composition pic- 
tured to my mind, or of which it expressed the 
sentiments." The author of this little elegant 
work confesses to his friend, that he found him- 
self frequently affected in a similar manner; and 
so, I believe, will all people admit, who are in the 
habit of consulting, at the moment, or subsequently 
calling to mind their feelings upon such occasions. 

With what indifference, and absence of sym- 



138 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

patby, do we read in the public papers of general 
engagements, massacres, &c. The news of the 
battle of Waterloo was heard, in this country, 
with a great deal of interest ; but it was not an 
interest arising from sympathy with the sufferers. 
It produced a strong, public sensation, arising, 
partly from the glory which the nation acquired 
from it ; partly from the satisfaction which it cre- 
ated in reflecting on the public, and, consequently, 
the individual advantages which would arise from 
being rid of an expensive and perilous war ; partly 
from the greatness and suddenness of the event ; 
partly from the important changes which it was 
expected to make in the political, commercial, and 
agricultural aspect of Europe; partly from the 
particular modes of thinking of the different indi- 
viduals whom it affected, the changes which these 
great, public revolutions would produce in their 
particular situations, relations, and interests, — 
the increase or decrease of influence, wealth, and 
power, which was likely to result from it, to each 
of them individually ; and, in particular instances, 
partly from influences, associations, situations, 
and circumstances, which can be specified only by 
those who were placed in, or affected by, them. 
In all this co-operation of causes and circumstances, 
sympathy had no share. The deaths of so many 
brave men excited only a general feeling of regret, 
for sympathy can be excited only by mental in- 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 139 

fluences, or, to explain myself more clearly, we 
sympathize not with sensible appearances where 
they are unconnected with mind. If I meet a 
person who lies beaten and wounded in a most 
cruel manner, on the road, I may pity, but I can- 
not sympathize in his sufferings, while there is 
nothing* to excite my sympathy but mere wounds 
and bruises. I must first know something of the 
man's mind and disposition ; — I look in his face ; — 
I watch the expression of his countenance to see 
if I can recognize, from the manner in which he 
endures his sufferings, the character of his mind. 
This I can do, sometimes, from a single look ; but 
it must be the look of him who deserves my sym- 
pathy. There is an expression, — an eloquence in 
the countenance of a virtuous and well disposed 
mind, which the man who is imbued with no 
sense of virtue, no softness or amiability of feeling, 
can ever assume in such situations. In our 
great commerce with the world, we are frequently 
imposed upon by those who assume a character 
that does not belong to them ; but this they can 
do only while the mind is at ease, and not even 
then, until they are long practised in the art of 
assuming virtues which they do not feel. The 
mask falls off, however, and their mimic powers 
entirely fail them, when they are thrown into situ- 
ations that powerfully affect the mind, as distress, 
danger, persecution, &c. Nature, then, has its 



140 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

way, in spite of them ; and the evil spirit which 
so long remained latent, makes its appearance, 
whether they consent to it or not. It is only 
while the mind is calm and collected, that the 
hypocrite can wear his mask, and conceal his true 
nature ; but, in the moment of passion, he be- 
trays himself, because, in these moments, no man 
has power over his own nature, and it will appear 
in all its native beauty or deformity. When I 
say native beauty, it may be thought, that the pas- 
sions of all men, the virtuous as well as the vi- 
cious, put on the same appearances, and are equally 
reprehensible. To think so, however, is not to 
think correctly. No passion can be reprehensible, 
if it be that which the influence, by which it was 
excited, was calculated to excite ; and, hence it is, 
that the same moral influences never excite the 
same passions in virtuous and vicious minds. An 
evil-disposed mind is stung with envy, when he 
beholds his neighbour advancing in the world by 
honest industry ; and, so far from promoting, he 
takes every opportunity of retarding his exertions ; 
but a well-disposed mind feels the very contrary 
passion to envy ; and, so far from retarding, he 
feels a real pleasure when any opportunity is of- 
fered him of promoting his views. The passion 
of envy, therefore, which is felt by the former, 
becomes reprehensible, from its not being that 
passion which the cause that produced it was cal- 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 141 

culated to excite. The same moral influences, 
therefore, never excite the same passions in good 
and evil dispositions : the passions which they 
excite in the latter are always criminal, because, 
so far from being the natural effects of the causes 
by which they are produced, they are perfect mon- 
sters in the moral world ; while, the passions which 
they excite in the former, so far from being crimi- 
nal or reprehensible, from the mere circumstance 
of their being passions, are the most perfect fruits 
of virtue. In the moments of passion, therefore, 
we can always distinguish the good from the evil- 
minded man, if we can only ascertain the cause 
by which his passion is excited. 

It is true, that the virtuous and the vicious, the 
honest and the dishonest man, may be agitated by 
the same individual passion ; but we shall always 
find, that it is never produced in them by the 
same moral cause ; for, with regard to physical 
causes, they generally produce the very same pas- 
sions, sensations, and emotions, in all men— the vir- 
tuous as well as the vicious. Place both on the 
summit of a lofty mountain, and they are struck 
with the same sublime and elevated emotions. 
When I say same, I do not mean same in the de- 
gree, but in the character, of the emotion ; for 
though the emotion felt by both is strictly sublime, 
it is always more sublime in a virtuous than in 
a vicious rnind, provided he possesses, from nature 



142 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

and education, the same expansion of intellect. 
Sublimity always carries a virtuous mind to the 
contemplation of a first cause, — a contemplation 
which has no charm to an ill-disposed mind, and 
from which, consequently, it loves to withdraw 
its attention. In all respects, however, except in 
the degree, physical causes produce the same emo- 
tions in all men, whatever be their passion for, or 
aversion from, virtue. Place these two men, not on 
a mountain, but on the sharp summit of a steep, 
tremendous precipice, and the sublime emotion 
is instantly fled. Both feel equally unconscious 
of it, and equally conscious of fear and terror, not 
that the situation is less sublime than the former, 
for it is infinitely more so, but that the sensation 
of fear being the predominant sensation, totally 
seizes the mind and prevents it from attending to 
the emotion of sublimity. The weaker sensation 
is always lost in the stronger. Though the agency 
of physical causes, however, always produces the 
same commotions, emotions, and passions, in the 
minds of all men, the virtuous as well as the vicious, 
the agency of moral causes produces them totally 
different; and, therefore, whenever we find a good 
and an evil man agitated by the same passion, we 
may feel confident that it does not proceed from the 
same moral cause in both. An honest man, if he be 
cheated of a farthing, falls instantly into a passion, 
not that he regards the farthing, but that the slightest 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 143 

appearance of dishonesty, produces an instinctive 
irritation in him which he cannot suppress, while 
the villain, who spends his life in defrauding others 
is angry, not when he is imposed upon, but when 
he fails m imposing upon others, or when he loses 
his prey by some neglect on the part of his asso- 
ciates. He is not put into a passion by being 
cheated himself, though he will have satisfaction if 
he can ; but, as he has no virtuous feeling of his 
own, the abandonment of it in others, gives him no 
farther concern than that of guarding against it. 
If he succeed in cheating them first, he does not 
consider himself a greater rogue, but a cleverer 
man ; but, if success be on their side, he is vexed, 
not with them, but with himself, for not being 
more watchful. His anger, therefore, arises from an 
attachment to vice, the honest man's anger from an 
attachment to virtue ; so that, in this and in all 
other cases, where the upright and the unrighteous 
man are agitated by the same passion, arising from 
moral causes, we shall always find, that the causes 
producing it are different from each other. Anger, 
then, in the virtuous man, is a virtue, in the vici- 
ous man, it is a vice, which easily explains that 
command in the gospel, " be angry, but sin not." 
This is generally understood to be a pardon, not a 
license for anger ; as if it said, be not angry if 
you can, but if you cannot controul your nature, 
at least, let not your passion induce you to sin. 



144 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

To me, it appears a perfect command to yield, 
without the slightest resistance, to our anger, 
whenever it arises from an attachment to virtue, 
and an abhorrence of vice. Not to feel angry with 
the man who violates, in our presence, the most 
sacred principles of virtue, is, evidently, a proof 
that we have no particular zeal for it, and that it 
would not be difficult to make us act ourselves 
like those whose actions we can witness without 
indignation or passion. 

It is not, however, in their causes alone that 
the anger of a virtuous, differs from that of an 
unprincipled, mind. Their modes of operation are 
not less different than the causes in which they 
originate. Virtue possesses a secret power of 
making itself known, even in the height of passion ; 
while vice, unconsciously, flings aside the veil which 
conceals its turpitude in its calmer moments. In 
distress and poverty, it is true, our pity tends very 
considerably to render us less observant of those 
external signs which disclose the real character 
of the mind, and, consequently, renders us more 
liable to be deceived ; but, whether we be de- 
ceived or not, we can never sympathize with, though 
we may pity, a distressed object, until we first 
perceive, or imagine we perceive, some quality of 
mind, or trait of character, or of feeling, which we 
either possess ourselves, or esteem in others. Where 
we have no opportunity of discovering any portion 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 145 

of the distressed object's character, of ascertain- 
ing his natural propensities and affections, we find 
it impossible to sympathize. Hence, neither the 
reports of battles, general engagements, pillage, 
devastation, nor even the destruction of an entire 
nation, can excite sympathy in the most sym- 
pathetic mind. Terror, consternation, and pity, 
are the only feelings excited by such relations, sim- 
ply because the mind, character, disposition, vir- 
tues, and frailties of each individual sufferer, is 
entirely kept out of sight. It is with feelings only 
that we can sympathize ; and, therefore, when the 
sufferer's feelings are not made known to us, we are 
incapable of sympathy. If we know a person's 
general character, and the degree of sensibility which 
he naturally possesses, we can sympathize in his suf- 
ferings the moment we hear of them, even though 
the person who relates them, merely describes 
the situation in which he is placed, because, from 
our previous knowledge, we easily guess how he 
feels affected in such a situation, and we enter, 
accordingly, into his feelings. Hence it is, that if 
the same misfortune happen to any two of our 
friends, who are equally dear to us, our sympathy for 
them will, by no means, be determined by our equal 
attachment to them. For the one we may not feel 
at all, while the other excites the most tender 
and heart-rending sympathy, though our attach- 
ment to both is the same. This will always be the 

h 



146 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

case, where the one possesses a strong and un- 
bending mind, fitted, not only to endure, but to 
surmount misfortunes, and the other, a delicacy 
and tenderness of feeling that shrinks, like the 
sensitive plant, from the slightest touch. We 
know how much more unfortunate the one is than 
the other, and our sympathy always keeps pace 
with the uneasiness and anxiety of feeling which 
we believe him to endure. As it is with feelings, 
then, we sympathize, not with the situation of the 
sufferer, we can feel no sympathy until we ascer- 
tain, or be enabled to form some opinion of, the 
state of the sufferer's feelings. 

Our sympathy is never determined by what we 
think the sufferer ought to feel ; for, if it were, we 
should feel the same for all men placed in similar 
situations. Experience tells us we do not, and, 
that while we are quite insensible to the situation 
of one man, we are greatly affected by that of 
another, though the situation of both are exactly 
the same. We are so constituted by nature, that 
we cannot avoid sympathizing with any person 
whom we see greatly affected, even though we 
should ourselves be scarcely moved by the circum- 
stance that affects him. We know his feelings 
arise from weakness, — from possessing a nature 
easily moved ; but this weakness, so far from check- 
ing our sympathy, only increases it, so that we 
never take into consideration how much a person 



TH& SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 147 

ought to feel, but how much he does feel ; and, it 
is with this latter feeling we always sympathize. 
This is so true, that he who does not feel at all, 
who is perfectly unmoved by the situation in which 
he is placed, creates no sympathy in us whatever, 
though it is a situation that would greatly affect 
us, if a sensitive mind were placed in it. 

From these observations, it is obvious, that dis- 
tress and sufferings affect us, only in proportion as 
we are made acquainted with the feelings of the 
sufferer. It is true, we may be mistaken in the 
ideas which we form of his feelings ; but, it is 
equally true, that our sympathy for him is entirely 
determined by these ideas. If we imagine that he 
feels more affected than he really does, so also do 
we sympathize with him more than we ought. 
There can, therefore, be no sympathy with real 
distress, where no idea is conveyed of the state of 
mind or feelings which accompany it ; whereas, 
imaginary distress affects us exceedingly, where a 
tender and pathetic scene of feeling is described, 
the writer not confining himself to the mere situ- 
ation in which the sufferer is placed. Hence, then, 
whenever the writer of fiction describes the feel- 
ings produced by the situation in which his cha- 
racters are placed, or makes us so well acquainted 
with their tempers and dispositions, that we can 
always place ourselves in their situation, and ima- 
gine those feelings which the writer does not choose 

l2 



148 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

to describe, he is sure of affecting us more strongly 
than he who, in describing real distress, confines him- 
self to circumstances, situations, and events, without 
noticing the complication of feelings and passions 
arising from them. It is only in this case that 
imaginary excites a stronger sympathy than real 
distress ; but where the description of the latter is 
accompanied by those delineations of feeling and 
passion, which give to fiction all its interest, the 
victim of real distress will always excite stronger 
sympathy than the victim of imaginary woes. 
The writer of fiction, however, has an advantage 
over him who relates only that of which he was 
himself a spectator. The latter describes only 
what is real ; if he describe more, it is fiction. 
Confined, therefore, to rigid truth, he cannot ren- 
der any situation, or state of feeling, more inte* 
resting or affecting than it really is, while the 
writer of fiction may make it as interesting and 
pathetic as he pleases. Hence, it seldom happens, 
(and it is even doubtful whether it can happen,) 
that we meet with a case of real distress as pathetic 
and interesting as that which the poet is capable 
of imagining ; but, if such a case were to occur, 
and delineated with the same happiness of descrip- 
tion, it would create an interest which no fiction of 
the imagination could ever excite. 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 149 



CHAP. VIII. 



All strong sensations pleasing to those by whom they are 
r elt, three instances only excepted* 



Having shewn that every writer who has hitherto 
attempted to discover the source of the Pleasures 
arising from Tragic Representations rests his 
theory on some erroneous principle, it now remains 
to be shewn, what the true source of these plea- 
sures are. In doing so, I must premise, that no 
man shall ever be able to tell, why pleasure should 
result from any source whatever. All the know- 
ledge we possess of emotions, is derived from our 
feelings. When we feel an emotion to be pleas- 
ing, we know it is so, simply because we feel it is 
so, but antecedent to this feeling we know nothing. 
Philosophy will never enable us to tell, why a beau- 
tiful woman produces a pleasing, and a deformed 
woman, a disagreeable emotion. Oar feelings 
inform us of it, and if they withheld the intelligence, 
we could derive it from no other source. There is 



I5d PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

nothing, then, to instruct us on the subject but our 
feelings ; but they can only make us acquainted 
with the fact. They point out the cause or agency 
by which pleasure is produced, but they can never 
shew, by what act or faculty the cause or agency 
produces the effect* The philosophers, however, 
who have set about discovering why Tragic Repre- 
sentations produce pleasure, seem to have taken 
it for granted, that they know, already, why Comic 
Representations produce it. A moment's conside- 
ration would have convinced them, at the same 
time, that they can no more tell why the latter 
should produce pleasure than the former, or than 
Newton could why heavier bodies attract the 
lighter. It is absurd, then, to suppose, that he 
who cannot explain how Comedy is a source of 
pleasure, should succeed in explaining how Tra- 
gedy produces that effect. Philosophers have long 
laboured to discover in what beauty consists ; but 
without success ; and yet, it is certain, that if they 
even succeeded, they would still be at a loss to 
tell by what agency it imparted pleasure. We 
must, therefore, refer the laws of feeling, as New- 
ton did the laws of attraction, to the will of the 
Creator, by whom we are so constituted, that cer- 
tain external appearances, and the display of cer- 
tain mental affections in others, produce certain 
emotions in us. Why they do so, we cannot tell, 
without having recourse to this law, because we 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 151 

cannot tell, why they should produce an emotion 
in us at all. This knowledge we derive from our 
own consciousness, not from the reasonings of phi* 
losophers ; for there is no reasoning on the sub- 
ject. That we are not in the least indebted to 
reason for the knowledge we possess of our feelings 
and emotions, appears sufficiently evident from 
this circumstance alone, that we cannot, by any 
process of reasoning, discover, why external influ- 
ences should produce emotions in us of any kind ; 
and, therefore, if we were to j udge by reason, we 
should deny the existence of influences and emo- 
tions altogether. It would, consequently, be as 
difficult to tell, why music is pleasing, as why 
Tragic Representations are so. The only difference 
is, that we think one is self-evident, and the other 
mysterious ; but when we g'o more deeply into the 
subject, we find our mistake, and that one is as 
mysterious as the other. Hence it is evident, that 
those who ascribe the pleasures resulting from 
Tragic Representations to causes that are not 
tragic, would be as nonplussed to tell, why these 
causes should give pleasure, as why Tragic Repre- 
sentations themselves should produce that effect. 

The origin of our feelings, then, is not a proper 
subject for philosophical investigation : we can 
easily discover what things please us, but why they 
please, shall ever remain a mystery. All our ob- 
servations on the subject are mere notices of facts. 



152 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

the causes of which exist in our own nature, but 
admit of no explanation. Until we know what the 
nature of soul or spirit is, we shall never know, why 
any external or material agency should be pleasing 
to it. The reason is obvious : — matter is some- 
thing which weprofess to know, (whether we know 
it or not is a question that belongs not to our pre- 
sent subject), spirit, something which no man pre- 
tends to know : it is absurd, then, to attempt to 
explain, how the something which we do know, pro- 
duces a certain effect in the something which we do 
not know ; for, to be acquainted with the manner 
in which an effect takes place, we must be ac- 
quainted with the nature of the thing which acts, 
and of the thing which is acted upon. Reasoning 
from the progress which human inquiry has made 
in ascertaining the properties of immaterial being, 
we shall never become acquainted with the nature 
of spirit ; and, if not, we shall never succeed in 
discovering, why it is pleased with any external 
agency. 

But though we cannot perceive why any imme- 
diate or proximate cause should produce the effect 
that follows it, yet we know, that this immediate 
cause is not the real, original cause by which the 
effect is produced, and that it is itself a mere instru- 
ment in the hands of some higher cause. When 
we come to examine this higher cause, however* 
we nnd it, again, set in action by something else ? 



THB SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 153 

and that it is as much an instrument of this some 
thing", as the immediate cause by which the ulti- 
mate effect is produced. From a conviction that 
the instrument which produces anyeffect or change, 
or which sets another, or, perhaps, a thousand 
other instruments at work, is not still the real 
cause of ail these effects and changes, and that 
this real cause must be that which makes use of 
this instrument, — which acts of itself, sets all the 
subordinate instruments in action, and is not itself 
acted upon by any thing, we naturally wish to travel 
beyond all these instrumental causes, to find out 
that primary cause by which all the effects are 
produced, and by which all the instrumental causes 
are put into motion. This primary cause, how- 
ever, eludes all our researches, and the most we can 
ever expect to discover, is the immediate instru- 
ment which it makes use of, and which produces 
the ultimate effect by subordinate instruments. 

This instrument we call a general law of nature, 
because we find, that all the subordinate instru- 
ments, or, as we usually call them, secondary 
causes, can be traced to this general law. We 
also call it the original cause, as we call gravita- 
tion the original cause of motion ; but in this we 
err, for gravitation, like ail other original causes 
that have ever been discovered, is a mere instru- 
ment, by which some higher cause puts all the sub- 
ordinate principles of motion into action. Gravita 



154 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

tion is a mere quality, or propensity of matter, by 
which certain effects are produced ; but this pro- 
pensity did not cause itself, and it is, therefore, to 
the agent which caused the propensity, we should 
attribute all the effects that result from it. The 
reader must, therefore, perceive, that in tracing 
the pleasure derived from Tragic Representations, 
to their original source, I do not mean, or pretend 
to discover, that real, original cause which I have 
now explained, but that immediate instrument 
which it makes use of, to set in action all the other 
instruments, by which the ultimate pleasure is pro- 
duced. In a word, I seek to discover that general 
law in our nature, to which all the subordinate 
causes of Tragic Pleasure can be traced, though 
this general law, or original cause, as it is called, 
will appear, when discovered, only the effect of some 
higher cause, to the knowledge of which the pre- 
tended perfectibility of the human reason can never 
attain. Instead of deploring this ignorance, how- 
ever, perhaps we have reason to exclaim with Pope, 

Oh ! blindness to the future ! kindly given, 

That each may fill the circle marked by heaven : 

Who sees with equal eye, as God of all, 

A hero perish, or a sparrow fall, 

Atoms and systems into ruin hurled, 

And now a bubble burst, and now a world. 

The pleasures derived from Tragic Representa- 
tions will appear, from the facts and reasonings 
stated in the following pages, to arise from a law 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 155 

in human nature, that renders not only all emo- 
tions and passions, from whatever source they 
arise, or whatever be their character, but, also, all 
strong sensations that agitate and rouse the feelings, 
or exercise the imagination, pleasing to those by 
whom they are felt, except, first; sensations that 
are too long continued; secondly, sensations whose 
intensity produces actual pain ; and thirdly, sensa- 
tions that affect us, not as men in general, but as 
individuals, placed in particular situations, and, 
consequently, subject to influences not arising from 
the general laws of nature. 

If this attachment to strong sensations, emo- 
tions, and passions, be found an original law of 
our nature, it will follow, a priori, that Tragic Re- 
presentations must produce pleasure, because the 
object of Tragic writers is, invariably, to produce 
these powerful impressions in the human mind. 
The reader, however, will bear in mind, that when- 
ever I speak of strong sensations being pleasing, 
I mean strong sensations qualified as above. 

To commence, then, with the pleasures arising 
from strong emotions: I must observe, that all the 
faculties of the mind, life, and its endlessly diversi- 
fied enjoyments, consist in sensation, abstraction, 
and will; the former of which is a passive, and the 
two latter, active faculties of the soul. These are 
the only faculties of soul or mind with which we 
are acquainted ; for, however metaphysicians may 



156 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

divide and sub-divide the intellectual powers, they 
are resolvable into these three. The will is wholly 
engaged in regulating the enjoyments and desires 
of the other faculties. These, again, are found at 
perpetual war with each other, and, in proportion 
as one ascends, the other descends in the scale of 
enjoyment. He who prefers the enjoyment of 
reflection, by which I mean all mental enjoyments, — 
all enjoyments which proceed from an exercise of 
the mind, as abstraction, contemplation, reasoning, 
comparing, analyzing, and every active operation 
of the percipient faculty ; — he who prefers these 
enjoyments to gratifications arising from sensibility 
and feeling, seldom listens to the solicitations of 
the senses, or the wanderings of imagination ; and, 
from seldom listening to them, from seldom grati- 
fying them, he so completely reduces them to sub- 
jection, that he may be said to annihilate them 
altogether. A man of a contemplative, philosophic 
mind, instead of yielding to an impression made 
upon him by the senses, instead of running after 
the enjoyment which it promises, begins imme- 
diately to ask himself how this impression hap- 
pened to be made upon him, by what agency it 
was produced, through what media it communi- 
cated itself to the soul, what the nature of that 
thinking and fesling thing is, on which the impres- 
sion is made, by what constitution of being it is 
capable of feeling the impression, and by what opera- 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 157 

tion of being it is afterwards capable of reflecting 
on this feeling. These reflections lead to a train of 
others, so that, while the philosopher is buried in 
contemplation, the impression dies of itself, and 
the enjoyment after which it thirsted is forgot, or, 
if remembered, remembered without any desire of 
attaining it. The impression, and the anticipated 
enjoyment, are no longer feelings in his mind, but 
mere perceptions of feelings that once existed there. 
If the impression should, at some future time, be 
revived, and invite the philosopher to the same 
enjoyment, the philosophy which extinguished it 
before, will find it much easier now to re-produce 
the effect ; for, as every circle produced by a stone, 
thrown into the water, is weaker than that which 
preceded it, so does a subdued appetite return with 
less and less violence, till, at length, it dies of itself, 
and leaves no trace behind. He who has brought 
himself to this stage of sensual denial, may be 
pronounced incapable of any enjoyments, but what 
are of a mental character ; so that, in proportion 
as the enjoyments of the intellect are exclusively 
indulged, in the same proportion are the enjoy- 
ments of the senses trampled upon and despised. 
I admit, then, in limine, that philosophers, meta- 
physicians, and all abstract reasoners, find no en- 
joyment in strong sensations, and that the only 
pleasures of which they are capable, are those 
which result from the satisfaction of discovering 



158 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

something, hitherto unknown. So far, then, as 
regards them, the theory which ascribes the plea- 
sures arising from Tragic Representations to a 
propensity in human nature of being pleased with 
strong sensations, emotions, and passions, is not 
supported by experience ; but do not the rest of 
mankind derive their happiest moments from this 
source alone ? The question, then, is, whose plea- 
sures are the most natural, the philosopher's or the 
poet's ; the logician's or the clown's ; or, in other 
words, which are, the pleasures of reason, or the 
pleasures of sense, the most natural ? To me it 
appears obvious, that the latter are not only more 
natural, but that they are nature itself ; while the 
exclusive enjoyment of the pleasures of reason are 
neither natural nor desirable, except when they 
are impressed with the character of the senses and 
of imagination, their lineal offspring. They are 
not natural ; because, he who has extinguished all 
the sensitive appetites, has also extinguished one 
of the three faculties of the soul, and confined the 
operation of another to half the range appointed 
for it by nature. The three faculties of the soul 
are, sensation, perception, and will ; the former of 
which he destroys, so far as regards the enjoy- 
ments which it imparts. It is true, no man can 
destroy the sensitive faculty, without destroying- 
life ; but it is very possible to destroy its enjoy- 
ments ; that is, it is possible to destroy those strong 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 159 

excitements by which it prompts us to happiness. 
When these excitements are once subdued or ex- 
tinguished, the sensations that remain, having lost 
that energy which "prompts, impels, inspires," 
can neither " devour its object," nor even " taste, 
the honey." In a word, all sensual enjoyment is at 
an end, and, therefore, the purposes for which the 
sensitive faculty was given, are completely frus- 
trated. To argue, that it is wise to frustrate them, — 
that it is wise to deny ourselves the pleasures which 
they afford, is to argue* in other words, that man is 
wiser than the Architect of Nature, who gave us 
a faculty which, according to this theory, we are 
better without ; and which must, therefore, have 
been given to no purpose. In destroying the energy 
of the sensitive faculty, and, consequently, of its 
enjoyments, we confine the operations of the will, 
as I have observed above, to half the range ap- 
pointed for them by nature ; for it cannot exercise 
itself in directing the operations of the sensitive 
faculty, such operations having no longer any exis- 
tence. It is in vain to will, or seek after any sen- 
sual gratification, after the sensitive faculty is once 
completely subdued, and brought to a state of per- 
fect self-denial, for the capability of enjoyment is 
then at an end, and the will, consequently, has no 
power of renewing it. The operations of the will 
being, therefore, confined to the perceptive or ab- 
stract faculty, half its power is destroyed. It is 



160 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

evident, then, that he who has completely subdued 
the cravings and solicitations of the senses, is but 
half a man, and possesses only half the faculties 
which were originally granted him by nature. If 
it be asked, how are these cravings and excitements 
of the senses to be extinguished ? I reply, by the 
two extremes of self-denial, and unbounded grati- 
fication. He who indulges in every pleasure which 
the senses afford him, will soon have no sense ca- 
pable of enjoying pleasure ; and he who denies 
himself all these pleasures, becomes equally inca- 
pable of enjoyment, for the natural strength and 
energy of the senses perish of themselves, whea 
the enjoyments, after which they thirst, are conti- 
nually denied to them. They become disgusted 
with their tyrant, and abandon him to that "stoic 
apathy," the virtue of which is " fixed as in a frost." 
It is in one or other of these extremes that men, 
as Bruyere says, " wish to love, but cannot suc- 
ceed ; they seek to be defeated, but they find they 
cannot, and, if the expression be allowable, they are 
constrained to remain free." The medium, then, 
between self-denial and unbounded gratification, is 
that golden medium where happiness has taken 
up her abode ; — 

That something still which prompts the eternal sigh, 
For which we bear to live, or dare to die ; — 
Which still so near ns, yet beyond us lies, 
O'erlooked, seen double > by the fool and wise. 

Pope. 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 161 

This is the very medium which Pope himself de* 
scribes in the following beautiful lines. 

Love, Hope, and Joy, fair Pleasure's smiling train ; 
Hate, Fear, and Grief, the family of Pain j 
These mixed with art, and to due bounds confined, 
Make and maintain the balance of the mind -, — 
The lights and shades, whose well accorded strife, 
Gives all the strength and colour of our life. 

If this reasoning be well founded, it is obvious, 
that in tracing the origin of any pleasure arising 
from the senses, we must not draw our observa- 
tions from those who cultivate the pleasure of rea- 
son only, and who deny themselves every enjoy- 
ment arising from a sensitive source, because such 
men, properly speaking, are only half men, as they 
possess only half the faculties with which nature 
originally endowed them. From the habit of re- 
pelling their feelings and pleasurable sensations, 
they soon become insensible of their influence ; 
and, accordingly we find, that what raises an emo- 
tion of pleasure in others, have no charms for 
them. All the fine arts affect the mind through 
the medium of the senses, but who are worse 
judges of the fine arts than such philosophers and 
metaphysicians as give themselves up, exclusively, 
to mental and abstract contemplations ; and who, 
instead of yielding to any feeling of a pleasing 
character, are only solicitous to discover and ana- 
lyze the nature of the impression by which they 

M 



162 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

find themselves affected. Locke was no judge of 
poetry, simply because he was insensible to its 
charms, because he was callous to those feel- 
ings which its beauties excite in every sensible 
mind, — every mind which, instead of resisting, 
yields, spontaneously, to the pleasing emotions which 
arise within it. Accordingly, he despised poetry 
and all its professors, except such of them as ad- 
dressed the understanding alone, and presented 
but few of those images by which the senses are 
delighted. Of this, we have a sufficient proof in 
his panegyric on one of Blackmore's Epics. Lon- 
guerue was a writer of profound knowledge : he 
read, and probably admired, poetry in his youth ; 
but from resigning himself afterwards to abstract 
studies, and resisting all the pleasing emotions of 
sense, he began, at length, to look on poetry with 
indifference. How insensible he was to its charms 
will appear from the following passage in his Lon- 
guerana. " There are two books in Homer which 
I prefer to Homer himself. The first is the AntU 
quitates Homericce of Feithius, where he has ex- 
tracted every thing relative to the usages and cus- 
toms of the Greeks ; the other is Homeri Gnomo- 
logia per duportum, printed at Cambridge. In 
these two books is found every thing valuable in 
Homer, without being obliged to get through his 
childish stories ! contes a dormir de bout! 
If we were to trace the origin, not only of the 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 163 

pleasures which are derived from public shews and 
spectacles, the fights of the ancient gladiators, 
bull feasts, &c, but even of poetry, painting, and 
all the fine arts, to observations drawn from the 
manner in which human nature operates in such 
metaphysical stoics as these, we should necessarily 
conclude, not only that they were mere delusions, 
but delusions, too, arising, not from the nature, but 
from the weakness of man. That such a conclu- 
sion would be naturally and logically drawn from 
such observations, is proved by the fact. The con- 
tempt which Locke, Longuerue, Selden, Le Clerc, 
and others entertained for poetry, if well founded, 
would render all the fine arts, and their produc- 
tions, equally contemptible, because they are all 
founded on the same basis, namely, that of im- 
parting pleasure through the medium of the senses. 
These philosophers prized only what imparts plea- 
sure through the faculty of perception, comparison, 
discussion, &c; and, consequently, they, and a 
great portion of the ancient philosophers, held, 
that so far as man yielded to the senses, so far he 
fell below the dignity of his nature, became the 
sport of appearances in which he should place no 
confidence, and the dupe of impressions to which 
he should never yield. That the promulgators of 
such a doctrine could derive little pleasure from 
public representations of any description, requires 
no argument to prove, as their theory, if it be good 

m 2 



164 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

for any thing, proves, that the fine arts in general, 
as well as representations of every description, are 
founded not in the nature, but in the weakness of 
man. Their doctrine, however, confutes itself; for 
the heart could never feel a pleasing emotion through 
the medium of the senses, if it were not so con- 
stituted by nature. But it will be granted, no 
doubt, that the heart is so constituted, while it will 
still be denied, that we ought to yield to the appe- 
tite for pleasure. If we ought not, it naturally 
follows, that happier results must emanate from 
resisting than from yielding to sensible impressions. 
But will any person maintain this to be the fact, 
who considers, for a moment, that the bulk of 
mankind derive all their happiness from this for- 
bidden source alone, and that no other source lies 
open to them from which it can proceed. 

The pleasures acquired through the medium of 
pure intellect, and abstract contemplation, are 
placed only within the reach of a few, because na- 
ture has endowed few with those powers of mind, 
which enable us to contemplate things abstractedly 
from the senses, because, those who possess these 
powers must devote a great portion of their lives 
to arrive at this intellectual perfection,— because 
this portion of their lives must be spent, if not in 
misery, at least devoid of happiness, as happiness, 
according to this theory, can only emanate from 
an intellectual source, and, finally, because a still 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 165 

greater portion, or, properly speaking, the great 
bulk of mankind, have not the means of acquiring 
this knowledge, and, consequently, must never 
hope to enjoy pure happiness, if happiness can pro- 
ceed only from spurning all sensible impressions, 
and prizing that pleasure only which proceeds 
from contemplation and abstract perception. 

We see, then, that the pleasures of sense are 
natural pleasures, and whatever is natural must be 
rational at the same time. The rationality of en- 
joying sensible pleasures arises from this, that by 
resisting them, we lead a life of misery, as they 
are the only source from which man can derive 
happiness in a state of nature. And if we were to 
enter more deeply into the question, it would be 
easy to prove, philosophically, what experience of 
itself abundantly teaches, that no man can be happy 
who denies himself the pleasures that emanate 
from this source. The senses are perpetually about 
us, presenting pleasure to us in a thousand shapes. 
Whether we gratify them or not, we cannot exist 
without them, for a moment ; and every time we 
refuse to gratify them, we necessarily and unavoid- 
ably inflict punishment on ourselves ; and even 
when we reduce them to a state of perfect subjec- 
tion, or, at least, subject them so far that their 
voice is scarcely heard, their excitements scarcely 
felt, their desires scarcely known, the only happi- 
ness we can boast of is, that we are incapable of 



166 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

happiness,— an empty boast, however it may be 
dignified by the pride of stoic indifference, or in- 
tellectual greatness. Let it not be thought, that I 
would depreciate the happiness arising from the 
cultivation of reason, when united with the plea- 
sures of feeling and imagination ; for the felicity 
arising from this union of the mental powers, is 
the most exquisite that nature can impart : but 
reason should be considered the guide, not the 
creator of our pleasures. Mentor was wiser than 
Telemachus, but Telemachus was the happier man. 
Even when he yielded to the headlong impetuosity 
of his passions, when he ingloriously resigned him- 
self, as we are pleased to call it, to the strong infa- 
tuation of love, when Eucharis exercised a greater 
dominion over his mind, than either Jupiter or Mi- 
nerva, Ulysses, Penelope, or Mentor, even then, Te- 
lemachus was a happier man than his wise preceptor 
and angel guardian. The impetuous propensities 
of his nature rendered him not only incapable of 
pain, but enabled him to convert pain into plea- 
sure. All pleasures arise from the senses, or, more 
philosophically speaking, from the reciprocation 
of those external influences by which the senses 
are acted upon, and that susceptibility of feeling 
which responds to these influences. It is impos- 
sible to form a sublime conception, unless it be 
connected with some sensible image; and the 
closer the connexion, the more sublime the idea. 



THE SOURCE OF TRACK! PLEASURE. 167 

The impression made upon us by the sensible 
image, not only lifts up the mind to the same 
elevation with itself, but heightens and gives zest 
to the pleasures resulting from that act of the mind 
by which it was originally conceived. 

Hence it is, that poets are the most, and meta- 
physicians the least, sublime of all writers, the 
creations and images of the former being all taken 
from the sensible, and those of the latter from the 
intellectual world. The metaphysician excels in 
separating, analyzing, and resolving the minuter 
shades and elements of things, while the poet ex- 
cels in vastness and comprehension ; in discovering 
resemblances, not differences ; concords, not dis- 
cords ; sympathies, not antipathies. The language 
of the poet, is, therefore, the language of love, and 
consequently the language of enjoyment, while the 
language of the metaphysician is, in every respect, 
the very opposite, and consequently affords no 
pleasure, but what arises from the pride or satis- 
faction of knowing what is concealed from others. 
This however is, in many respects, a negative plea- 
sure, and, as it arises from these two sources alone, 
it wants that infinite variety which poetry, the fine 
arts, and sensible gratifications of every description, 
are capable of affording. 

The pleasures acquired through the medium 
of the senses are therefore the most exquisite, the 
most palpably felt, the most sensibly, if I may use 



168 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

the term, enjoyed ; the most positive and real, so 
far, at least, as regards our perceptions of reality, 
the most sublime and diversified in their objects, 
embracing as they do all the creations of imagina- 
tion ; for imagination can conceive nothing that 
does not bear the stamp of sensible existence ; in a 
word, as the pleasures of sense, are, properly 
speaking, the only pleasures we can be said to feel, 
pleasures of every description being only various 
modifications of sense, or feeling, we cannot be 
surprised, that man should be eagerly and power- 
fully attached to strong sensations. We find, 
accordingly, that with the exception of those who 
have brought the senses under a perfect subjection, 
to the principle of self-denial, or, in whom a life of 
abstract contemplation has weakened the energy 
and susceptibility of the senses, an effect which 
may also result from ill health, and other physical 
causes ; these, excepted, we find the rest of man- 
kind strongly attached to the enjoyments arising 
from this prolific source. We find them running 
after objects, and delighting in spectacles, the very 
recollection of which, or even the mention of which, 
strikes more tender minds with the most painful 
feelings. Are we to suppose, that any person who 
retains the nature of man ; who has a particle of 
humanity in his breast, would wish, for a moment, 
to see his fellow creature torn by the most excru- 
ciating pain which human ingenuity can devise, to 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 169 

follow him to the scaffold, and behold him writhing 
in the agonies of the most insufferable torments ? 
The idea is revolting to human nature ; but this 
very nature which revolts at barbarity, delights, 
notwithstanding, in witnessing the infliction of all 
these torments. We find all strong sensations 
which are not absolutely painful through their in- 
tensity, agreeable to youth ; and so great is their 
attachment to these sensations, that they will fre- 
quently endure pain rather than be deprived of 
the pleasure by which it is accompanied. 

They have an eternal propensity to change the 
sensation of the moment for some other, whatever 
pain it may cost them, if this sensation has been 
felt for any length of time, because a continued 
sensation soon becomes no sensation at all. Ac- , 
cordingly, we find them running into every mis- 
chief, and placing themselves in situations which 
are actually painful, because the pleasure of the 
strong sensation is greater than the accompa- 
nying pain. The pleasure of strong sensations 
is so great a feast to them, that even a sense of 
imminent danger will not prevent them from enjoy- 
ing it. They climb the steepest precipices, at the 
peril of their lives, — they traverse the deepest 
snows with greater luxury than they enjoy on beds 
of down ; they fly those softer scenes of insipid 
ease which tend not to put the soul and all its ener- 



170 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

gics into action. — Restlessness, tumult, and agita- 
tion are almost the only pleasures which they prize. 
They have no delicacy in the selection of the objects 
or means by which their sensations are produced ; 
and care not what the sensation is, provided it be 
a strong one. The love of strong sensations is the 
universal law by which all their actions are deter- 
mined. Hence they cannot walk the streets with- 
out running into puddles and mire, unless they 
are punished for it by their parents. In fact, the 
greatest trouble which parents have with their chil- 
dren is to keep them quiet, that is, to prevent them 
from indulging in strong sensations, or placing 
themselves in the situations by which these sensa- 
tions are produced. 

It is youth alone that present us with a true 
portrait of the natural man; and that consequently, 
make us acquainted with the real and undisguised 
propensities of the human race, while these pro- 
pensities act according to their awn nature, and 
receive no check from the counteraction of reason. 
Their indulgence beyond a certain degree, is 
termed vice ; but it should be recollected, that 
vice is vice only in him who knows it to be so, 
and, happily, youth know little about it, till 
they are made acquainted with it by circum- 
stances and the progress of reason. In youth, 
the empire of reason is unknown, and consequently 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 171 

it gives us a better opportunity of becoming ac- 
quainted with the real and natural propensities of 
the heart. It is therefore properly described by a 
French poet, 

Cette agreable saison, 
Oil le coenr, a son empire, 
Assujettit la raison. 

To say that these propensities are vicious, because 
they do not conform to the precepts of reason and 
religion, is saying nothing to the point ; because 
the question to be considered is, what are our real 
propensities, not what they are conformable to. 
These ardent propensities for strong sensations, 
which evince themselves in our earliest years, con- 
tinue without intermission, while the physical 
powers retain all their vigour, and are more con- 
spicuous from the age of twenty to thirty, than at 
any former, or subsequent period. 

Un jeune homme toujours bouillant dans ses caprices, 
Est prompt a recevoir l'iinpression des vices, 
Est vain dans ses discours, volage en ses desirs, 
R6tif a la censure, et fou dansles plaisirs. 

In fact, a young man, who enjoys good health 
and spirits, and without this enjoyment man is 
not himself, spurns every sensation that is not of 
a strong and powerful nature. He encounters dif- 
ficulties which are above his strength, and places 
himself in the most dangerous and trying situations, 



172 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

that he may enjoy the pleasure resulting from the 
strong sensations which they naturally produce ; 
and so attached is he to these sensations, that he 
becomes blind to the perils that surround him on 
every side. He believes himself capable of every 
thing, despises actual and impending dangers, 
always runs into extremes, because the greater the 
extreme, the more powerful the sensation. What 
species of reading is more pleasing to youth, than 
fairy tales, and marvellous adventures, thickly 
sown with wizzards, witches, magicians, enchanted 
castles, and whatever else can produce the most 
powerful sensation ? Even in the present improved 
state of society in Europe, newspapers are more 
generally read than any other productions of the 
press, not because they make us more learned, but 
because they contain whatever is most wonderful 
and surprising, whatever is best calculated to pro- 
duce strong sensations. 

The newspapers, accordingly, are more read in 
time of war, than when peace has released the 
world from the dangers and apprehensions which 
follow in its train. It is only in time of peace, 
that we betake ourselves to poetry, and the delights 
of science ; but the moment war has sounded her 
brazen trumpet, we dismiss the gentler sensibilities 
of the muse, and fly to the stronger feelings, pro- 
duced by scenes of havoc and destruction. The 
stronger sensation always extinguishes the weaker, 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 173 

which could never happen, if the former did not pro- 
duce the greater pleasure ; for it is certain that we 
always prefer that which is the most pleasing and 
agreeable to us. The strong sensation produced i 1 
this country by the trial of the late Queen made some 
some thousands neglect their business. It was the 
only subject of conversation in the higher, as well 
as the lower circles ; and things, which, at other 
times, would be interesting, were then totally pas- 
sed over, as things of no interest whatever. The 
stronger sensation, therefore, like the ft master 
passion," swallows up the rest, Those influences 
which produce a keen and lively sensation of plea- 
sure, are totally disregarded, when a strong sensa- 
tion takes possession of us, or when we have an 
opportunity of placing ourselves in a situation 
which we know, antecedently, must produce, a 
strong sensation in us. Can it then be denied, 
that the stronger sensation is felt to be the stronger 
pleasure. If it should be said, that though a 
stronger, excites a more earnest attention, than a 
weaker sensation, yet this sensation is different 
from that feeling which we call pleasure, I would 
ask, what pleasure is, if not that which we like most, 
or which gratifies us most, — that sensation which 
we are most desirous of feeling, and which we 
should most regret, if we were denied the gra- 
tification which it impart s£ In a word, what is 
pleasure but that which gives us the highest satis- 



171 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

faction ? Now I would ask, what would have 
\iekledhighersatisfaction to the citizens of London, 
than to be present at the Queen's trial ? Would 
not the theatre, the ball room, the masquerade, be 
equally deserted if this liberty were permitted ? At 
least, would not the great majority of the lower 
circles, and it is only among them we are to seek 
for human nature, derive more satisfaction from 
being permitted to witness the trial, than they 
would from beholding her invested with all the 
insignia of royalty, had the trial never occurred ? 
not that the people of England would delight in 
the misfortune, or peril of the Queen, or of any 
individual, but that all men like to enjoy the strong 
sensations excited by peril and misfortune, though 
they will not co-operate in producing them, though 
they feel more pleasure in preventing than in 
causing those catastrophes which they find such 
pleasure in beholding when brought about without 
any co-operation or instrumentality of their own. 
Granting, however, that something more attrac- 
tive drew off a great majority of the people from 
the trial, it will still be found, that this some- 
thing must produce a stronger sensation in those 
who were attracted by it, than the trial. A 
man in great distress, for instance, would find 
more pleasure in staying at home, if he were to 
receive a sovereign for so doing, whereas an affluent 
man would not be prevented by such an offer for a 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 175 

moment. Whence, then, does this difference of 
conduct arise? Evidently from each of them lov- 
ing to pursue that which excites the strongest sen- 
sation in himself. What can produce a stronger 
sensation in a famishing man, than the receipt of a 
sovereign, except the receipt of two, three, &c. He 
therefore feels little interest in the trial, not only 
because a stronger sensation gives him higher sa- 
tisfaction at home, but because, independently of 
the motive which keeps him at home, the trial is 
incapable of producing that strong sensation in 
his mind which it would produce in others ; for, as 
I have already observed, in treating of sympathy^ 
he who is deeply afflicted himself can never sym- 
pathize in the woes of others. 

The affluent man acts differently; but he is 
strictly governed by the same law, and prefers, 
like the former, the stronger sensation to the 
weaker. The acquisition of a sovereign cannot pro- 
duce a strong sensation in him, or rather it pro- 
duces no sensation at all. He will not, therefore, 
accept of it on the condition of denying himself 
the pleasure which he anticipates from the strong 
sensation about to be produced by the trial. The 
highest pleasure is, therefore, always produced by 
the strongest sensation, no matter by what means 
this sensation is excited. Strong sensations affect 
us differently, according to the difference of the 
causes by which they are elicited ; but they all 



176 PHILOSOPHICAL ENQUIRY INTO 

agree, without exception, in producing a modifica- 
tion of feeling' which is always pleasing to us, and 
therefore, pleasure must not be considered as one 
simple mode of being affected, for the modes of 
pleasure are infinitely diversified, every sensation 
being a pleasure which gives us satisfaction, and 
which we are unwilling not to feel. It is, there- 
fore, erroneous to suppose, that strong sensations 
are agreeable or disagreeable according to the 
manner in which they affect us ; for let them affect 
us as they will, they are always pleasing, unless 
their intensity cause actual pain. Let imagination 
form to itself as great a diversity of circumstances 
or objects fitted to produce strong sensations as it 
can, and we shall find, that however endlessly dif- 
ferent they may be from each other, they will be 
all pleasing without < xception. If a man were to 
walk in the air down the middle of Oxford Street, 
without any visible support, it would, no doubt, 
produce a strong sensation ; but yet a sensation 
very different from that produced by the Queen's 
trial. Would it therefore be the less pleasing? I am 
confident it would not, though the pleasure, in 
both instances, would be differently felt. The 
degree of pleasure, however, in each, would depend 
altogether on the degree of intensity with which 
it was felt ; so that however important the issue 
of the Queen's trial might be to the nation, yet, 
unless it produced a stronger sensation than that 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 177 

produced by the aerial pedestrian, it would certain- 
ly not afford the same degree of pleasure. This 
would appear obvious enough, should the aerial 
spectacle take place, for all London would crowd 
to see it, and forget the interest produced by the 
trial. Let us suppose a case fitted to produce stronger 
sensations than either of these, and we shall find 
that the pleasure still increases with the sensation, 
till it reaches to actual pain. If it were demon- 
stratively proved, from the operation of the laws 
of nature, and the calculations of astronomy, that 
the moon was to be seen on a certain night, and 
only in a certain province in France, quitting her 
usual course, and advancing towards the earth 
in a direct line, increasing in magnitude as she ap- 
proached, enlarging her dusky spots into vast 
regions of land, and her lucid tracts into immense 
oceans, that she was to continue approaching till 
the spectators had a distinct view of her hills, 
mountains, vales, woods, rivers, plains, houses, and 
even inhabitants ; — that havingapproached thus far 
without producing any sensible inconvenience to 
them, she was to continue stationary for a month, 
I ask, whether every individual in Europe who 
could afford the expenses, would not be seen in this 
part of France within that short period? Now, as 
it is obvious that nothing could bring so many 
millions of people to this part of France, but some- 
thing that afforded them great pleasure ; it is equal- 

N 



178 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

ly obvious, that the pleasure is always proportioned 
to the strength of the sensation, and, consequently, 
thegreater the sensation, the greater the pleasure. It 
is idle, then, to attribute the pleasure resulting from 
Tragic Representations to sympathy, for there can 
be no sympathy with the moon, and yet the spec- 
tacle which I have spoken of would give greater 
pleasure than all the Tragic Representations that 
were ever exhibited ; and that, evidently, because it 
would produce a stronger sensation. Had such a 
spectacle been presented to the eyes of Europe 
during the Queen's trial, the latter would scarcely 
be spoken of in England at the time, so slight 
would be the sensation it would produce ; for how- 
ever strong any sensation may be, it instantly 
perishes if a stronger be excited. 

Whatever, then, affects the mind through the 
medium of the senses, produces a pleasure always 
proportionate to the degree in which we are affect- 
ed, unless the cause by which the sensation is pro- 
duced acts so powerfully on the organs by which it 
is received, as to produce actual pain. The sen- 
sation cannot be too strong for the mind, if the 
organs which conveys it can endure the action of 
the exciting cause. Thus, if instead of the moon, 
the sun were seen descending from the heavens 
in all his meridian glory, increasing as he ap- 
proached in heat and magnitude, and throwing a 
world of splendour and insufferable radiance around 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 179 

him, it is obvious that so grand a spectacle would 
produce a much stronger sensation than could be 
experienced by the approach of the moon, and that 
the pleasure of beholding it would be proportion- 
ably greater, while our sensitive organs could 
endure the increasing intensity of light and heat ; 
but the moment this intensity became intolerable, 
the pleasure would instantly perish. 

To what can we attribute the institution of pub- 
lic games and theatric representations among the 
ancient Greeks, if not to the love of strong sen- 
sations ? It is this propensity that gave rise to their 
foot, horse, and chariot races, wrestling, leaping, 
the disk, pugilism, &c. The fame of the Olympic, 
Isthmian, Nemean, and Pythian games, shall never 
be forgotten, nor the immense number of specta- 
tors which crowded to see them. They may be 
said, in a manner, to have been witnessed by ail 
Greece. So great was the rage for these dangerous 
exercises, that they were considered sacred, and 
consecrated to religion. They served to honour the 
remains of departed heroes in Greece and Rome; 
witness the funeral games on the death of Patro- 
clus, in Homer, and those which were appointed 
by JEneas in honour of his father Anchises. In 
Rome public games were carried to an inconceiv- 
able pitch of grandeur and magnificence. They 
were placed under the immediate care of Roman 
kings, during the monarchy, and after its subver- 

n2 



180 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

sion the consuls and chief magistrates took charge 
of them. To increase them in number, they dedi- 
cated them, not only to the celestial, but to the infer- 
nal deities ; such were the games called Taurilia, 
Compitalia, and Terentini ladi. Every reader ac- 
quainted with Roman History knows how strongly 
the Romans were attached to these games. We 
meet with one of the most remarkable instances 
of this attachment in the Dictatorship of A. Post- 
humius, who, seeing the affairs of Rome in a most 
ruinous condition, made a solemn vow, that if the 
Roman arms should rescue the state from the 
perils to which it was exposed, he would institute 
magnificent games in honour of Castor and Pollux. 
The sensation produced by the expectation of wit- 
nessing these games, had such an effect on the 
Roman soldiery, that they became invincible in the 
field, and soon retrieved the fallen majesty of the 
senate, and the glory of the Roman arms. Post- 
humius fulfilled his promise, and the senate order- 
ed these games to be celebrated yearly, during a 
period of eight days. 

Rut it will be said, that these games were not 
much relished or frequented by the Roman phi- 
losophers. " Grant it : are Tragic Representa- 
tions, at the present day, much frequented by our 
own philosophers ? Mr. Campbell says of poetry, 
that " the progress of literature serves only to 
diminish its pleasures," and the same may be said 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 181 

of the pleasures of the stage. The cause of this 
effect is the same in both cases : the more we reason, 
the more apt we are to view every subject through 
the cold, analyzing medium of the understanding, 
and to divest it of those smiling hues in which 
feeling and imagination love to encircle all their 
objects : and the less we reason, the more apt we 
are to view every thing through the medium of 
the feelings alone. Those who seldom consult their 
feelings, as I have already observed, extinguish them 
by degrees, and have soon no feelings left to con- 
sult ; so that the feelings of human nature must not 
be sought for in the abstract or metaphysical world, 
though a learned man may feel and act like the 
rest of mankind. Those whose studies are found- 
ed on the science of human nature, and who are 
consequently obliged to consult their own feelings, 
and the manner in which they are affected, when 
placed in particular situations, in order to become 
acquainted with the feelings of others, — as poets, 
painters, sculptors, connoisseurs, critics, and the 
lovers of the fine arts in general, — differ not in their 
feelings and pleasures from the rest of mankind ; 
or, if they do not enjoy their objects with as strong 
and greedy an appetite, at least they, enjoy them 
with a keener and livelier relish. 

Da Bos admits that strong sensations are pleas- 
ing to us in a certain degree ; but so far from con- 
sidering them as productiveof the highest pleasure, 



182 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

heattributes the pleasure resultingfrom them, rather 
to the power they possess of removing the uneasi- 
ness which attends ennui, and want of occupation, 
than to any positive pleasure which they are fitted 
to impart. This sort of pleasure is, evidently, only 
that negative pleasure which arises from the re- 
moval of pain. It can have nothing positive in its 
nature, being produced by no sensible cause, and 
originating entirely from an act of the mind, which 
felicitates itself on its escape from the uneasiness 
which it had previously endured. Hume adopts 
this theory in part, and rejects it in part, adding 
to it whatever he thought necessary to render it 
perfect. 

" L'Abbe Du Bos," he says, " in his reflections 
on poetry and painting, asserts that nothing is, in 
general, so disagreeable to the mind as the languid 
listless state of indolence into which it falls, upon 
the removal of all passion and occupation. To 
get rid of this painful situation, it seeks every 
amusement and pursuit ; business, gaming, shews, 
executions, whatever will rouse the passions, and 
take its attention from itself. No matter what the 
passion is ; let it be disagreeable, melancholy, dis- 
ordered, it is still better than that insipid languor 
which arises from perfect tranquillity and repose." 

This is the theory of Du Bos, as stated by Hume, 
and that which approaches nearest to the one 
which I have adopted in this work, on the source 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 183 

of Tragic Pleasure. It approaches to it, however, 
more in appearance than in reality ; for Du Bos, 
so far from making strong sensations a source of 
pleasure, maintains that they are always attended 
with inquietude, and produce lasting and acute 
pain. " & inquietude" he says, " que les affaires 
causent, ni les mouvemens quelles demandent, ne 
Sfauroient plaire aux hommes, par eux memes. 
Mais les hommes craignent encore plus V ennui qui 
suit V inaction, et Us trouvent dans les mouvement des 
affairs, et dans Vyvresse des passions, une emotion 
qui les tient occupes. If we ask him, then, why 
are we pleased with strong sensations, he will not 
reply, because they give us unmingled pleasure, but 
because we prefer enduring the pain which they 
inflict, to the torment of that ennui which we 
experience in their absence. He says we know, 
antecedently, that strong passions are attended 
with painful consequences, suites fdcheuses, but 
that of two evils we choose the least, and prefer 
the pain to the ennui of inaction. The whole of 
the pleasure we derive from Tragic Representa- 
tions is, therefore, a mere escape from pain. It is 
consequently, in every respect, a negative pleasure, 
or, rather, it is a positive pain, rendered pleasant 
by the reflection, that it is not altogether so painful 
as that which it enables us to escape; or, to express 
it in the words of Hume, " it is still better than 



184 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

that insipid languor which arises from perfect tran- 
quillity and repose. 

If Du Bos be right, we go to a tragedy, not for 
the pleasure it imparts, but to avoid the pain ari- 
sing from the iistlessness and stupidity of remain- 
ing at home. We need not go far in search of 
arguments to prove this theory erroneous, and to 
shew, that strong sensations impart real and posi- 
tive pleasure, and positive pleasure surely owes 
no part of its effect or intensity to the reflections 
which we make on the ennui and inquietude which 
it enables us to escape. We have only to consult 
our own feelings on the subject, and they will in- 
stantly inform us, that we go to see a tragedy, not 
to escape pain, but to enjoy real, actual, and posi- 
tive pleasure. There are cases, it is true, where 
people go to the theatre, to banish the idea of some 
immediate grievance ; but these cases are few, and 
if those who are influenced by them never went 
there, it would be still, in appearance, as much 
frequented as ever. How many go to the the- 
atre who could spend the evening happily at 
home ? how many are undetermined, whether to 
go there or not, because they do not know which 
to prefer, the pleasures which they may enjoy at 
home, or those which they anticipate by going to 
the theatre ? It is not, therefore, to avoid ennui or 
positive pain that we go in search of the enjoy- 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 185 

merits which the theatre affords, but to enjoy a 
pleasure which is really and sensibly felt. 

Besides, it is a mistake to suppose, that tran- 
quillity and repose are, in themselves, absolutely 
painful. Some of the finest poems in every lan- 
guage are written on the pleasures of retirement, 
and the delights of solitude. Some have gone so 
far as to say, that it is only in solitude we can en- 
joy true pleasure and felicity ; but allowing this 
picture of solitude to be too highly coloured, yet 
it affords evidence enough that tranquillity and 
repose are not absolutely painful. Who would 
not fall in love with retirement, after perusing the 
following passage in Goldsmith's " Deserted Vil- 
lage." 

O blest retirement, fr'.end to life's decline, 
Retreats from care, that never must be mine, 
How blest is he, who crowns, in shades like these, 
A youth of labour with au age of ease ; 
Who quits a world when strong temptations try, 
And since 'tis hard to combat, learns to fly. 
For him no wretches, born to work and weep, 
Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep ; 
No surly porter stands in guilty state, 
To spurn imploring famine from the gate 5 
But on he moves to meet his latter end, 
Angel's around, befriending virtue's friend ; 
Sinks to the grave withunperceived decay, 
While resignation gently slopes the way ; 
And, all his prospects brightening to the last, 
His heaven commences ere the world be past. 



186 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

Hume, however, agrees in the main with this 
theory of Du Bos, and thinks, with him, that the 
pleasure resulting from strong sensations, is a mere 
k - relief to that apprehension under which men com- 
monly lahour, when left entirely to their own 
thoughts and meditations." The real objections to 
this theory he passes over, and perceives only one 
reason for refusing to give it his unqualified assent. 
" There is, however," he says, u a difficulty in ap- 
plying to the present subject, in its full extent, this 
solution, however ingenious and satisfactory it may 
appear. It is certain, that the same object of dis- 
tress, which pleases in a tragedy, were it really set 
before us, would give the most unfeigned uneasi- 
ness, though it be then the most effectual cure to 
languor and indolence." This objection seems not 
to be so well founded as Hume imagines, nor is it 
so certain, that the same object of distress which 
pleases in a tragedy would give the most unfeigned 
uneasiness, were it really set before us ; for if this be 
the fact, why do we see people running in crowds to 
witness executions, fights, shipwrecks, &c. ? These 
are real objects of distress, and yet, so great is our 
delight in witnessing them, that, as Burke observes, 
we should quit the deepest and best performed 
tragedy to behold the execution of a state criminal. 
In all countries, and in all ages, this propensity 
for witnessing scenes of real distress has uniformly 
prevailed. It is many ages since Lucretius flou- 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 187 

rished, and it was then as prevalent as at the pre- 
sent moment. He describes the pleasure result- 
ing from witnessing a shipwreck, an engagement, 
&c, in the following lines. 

Suave mari magno, turbantibus aequora ventis 
E terra alterius magnum spectare laborem : 
Suave etiam belli certamina magna tueri 
Per campos instructa tui sine parte pericli. 

Da Bos himself justly observes, that the more 
dangerous are the evolutions of a rope dancer, and 
the more he exposes his life, the more delight he 
affords us. So that, at the time of Du Bos, and 
of Lucretius, as well as at present, we find 
that the real perils to which others are exposed, 
afford a pleasure of the highest and deepest 
character. It is not, therefore, the mere ficti- 
tious distress we see represented on the stage 
that alone pieases us, for the real, actual distress 
to which our fellow creatures are exposed, as it 
produces a stronger sensation, produces also, except 
in the case already mentioned, a pleasure incom- 
parably greater than any gratification we can de- 
rive from its imitation on the stage, Hume's ob- 
jection to Du Bos's theory is, consequently, fri- 
volous, and founded on the assumption of a fact, 
which is absolutely erroneous, and disproved by the 
expeperience of mankind. Let us now see how he 
attempts to improve it by the assistance of Fon- 
tenelle. 



188 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

" Monsieur Fontenelle," he says, seems to have 
been sensible of this difficulty, (the foregoing ob- 
jection to Du Bos's theory) and, accordingly, at- 
tempts another solution of the phenomenon, at 
least, makes some addition to the theory above 
mentioned. " Pleasure and pain," says he, " which 
are two sentiments so different in themselves, differ 
not so much in their cause. From the instance of 
tickling, it appears, that the movement of pleasure 
pushed a little too far, becomes pain, and that the 
movement of pain, a little moderate, becomes 
pleasure. Hence it proceeds, that there is such a 
thing as a sorrow soft and agreeable : it is a pain 
weakened and diminished. The heart likes, natu- 
rally, to be moved and affected. Melancholy ob- 
jects suit it, and even disastrous and sorrowful, pro- 
vided they are softened by some circumstance. 
It is certain, that on the theatre, the representation 
has always the effect of reality, yet it has not, alto- 
gether, that effect. However we may be hurried 
away by the spectacle, whatever dominion the senses 
and imagination may usurp over the reason, there 
still lurks at the bottom an idea of falsehood, in 
the whole of what we see. This idea, though weak 
and disguised, suffices to diminish the pain which 
we suffer from the misfortunes of those whom we 
love, and to reduce that affliction to such a pitch, 
as converts it into pleasure. We weep for the mis- 
fortunes of a hero to whom we are attached. In 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 189 

the same instant, we comfort ourselves by reflect- 
ing-, that it is nothing but a fiction, and it is pre- 
cisely that mixture of agreeable sorrow and tears 
that delight us. But, as that affliction which is 
caused by exterior and sensible objects, is stronger 
than the consolation which arises from an internal 
reflection, they are the effects and symptoms of sor- 
row, that ought to predominate in the composition." 
" This solution," says Hume, "seems just and con- 
vincing ;" but how it should appear either one or 
the other to this acute philosopher, seems to me 
very extraordinary. 

The objection he makes to the former theory 
of Du Bos, is, " that the same object of distress 
which pleases in tragedy, were it really set before 
us, would give the most unfeigned uneasiness ;" and 
yet, Fontenelle, whose theory seems to him "just 
and convincing" affirms the direct contrary, and 
asserts, " that the representation has always the 
effect of the reality, though it has not altogether 
that effect." Can any thing shew the short-sighted- 
ness of philosophy, or rather, of those whom we 
term philosophers, than that which is exhibited to 
us in the present instance ? Hume says, that real 
distress is painful to us, though the imitation is 
pleasing. Fontenelle asserts, that the imitation 
produces the same effect with the reality, which, 
according to Hume, must necessarily be painful. 
If Fontenelle, then, be right, Hume must be wrong; 



190 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

and yet Fontcnelle's theory seems "just and con- 
vincing " to Hume ; which is only saying", in other 
words, that he is convinced Fontenelle is right, and 
that he himself is wrong. But how can Fonte- 
nelle be right, when he says "the heart likes natu- 
rally to be moved and affected. Melancholy ob- 
jects suit it, and even disastrous and sorrowful, 
provided they are softened by some circumstance ? M 
In applying this to Tragic Pleasure, the qualifying 
circumstance which softens the sorrowful objects, 
is "a certain idea of falsehood in the whole of 
what we see." If this be true, melancholy objects, 
or objects of distress, do not please us, except when 
we know they are so only in appearance. We can, 
therefore, take no pleasure in witnessing shipwrecks, 
engagements, the fights of gladiators, &c. where 
we are ourselves free from all danger, because, in 
these cases, the distress is real, without any soften- 
ing circumstance, or idea of falsehood in the 
whole of what we see. Yet, as the experience of 
mankind convinces us, that we do find pleasure in 
these real spectacles, how frivolous is it to attribute 
the pleasure to " a certain idea of falsehood." 
Besides, if it be this idea of falsehood that imparts 
the pleasure, it is obvious, that the representation, 
instead of having, according to Fontenelle himself, 
" the effect of reality," has an effect contrary to it ; 
for, if we be pleased, because we know the distress 
is not real, we should evidently feel no pleasure if 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 191 

we knew it to be real, so that the representation 
and the reality must, consequently, have an oppo- 
site effect. The fact, however, is, that both the 
reality and the representation are pleasing to us, 
and that the latter is pleasing only because it 
produces an effect similar to that of its proto- 
type. 

After commenting on the theories of Du Bos 
and Fontenelle, Hume proceeds to make such 
additions to them as would render the theory of 
Tragic Pleasure perfect ; for though he admits, that 
Fontenelle's " conclusion seems just and convinc- 
ing," yet he thinks, " it wants still some new ad- 
dition in order to make it answer fully the pheno- 
menon" of Tragic Pleasure. " All the passions," 
he says, " excited by eloquence are agreeable in the 
highest degree, as well as those which are moved 
by painting, and the theatre. The epilogues of 
Cicero are, on this account, chiefly the delight of 
every reader of taste ; and it is difficult to read 
some of them without the deepest sympathy and 
sorrow." His merit, as an orator, no doubt, depends 
much on his success in this particular. When he 
had raised tears in his judges, and all his audience, 
they were then the most highly delighted, and 
expressed the greatest satisfaction with the pleader. 
The pathetic description of the butchery made by 
Verres of the Sicilian captains, is a masterpiece of 
this kind. But I believe none will affirm that, the 



198 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

being present at a melancholy scene of that nature 
would afford any entertainment. Neither is the 
sorrow here softened by fiction : for the audience 
were convinced of the reality of every circum- 
stance. What is it then which, in this case, raises 
a pleasure from the bosom of uneasiness, so to 
speak ; and a pleasure which still retains all the 
features and outward symptoms of distress and 
sorrow? I answer, this extraordinary effect proceeds 
from that very eloquence with which the melan- 
choly scene is represented. The genius required 
to paint objects in a lively manner, the art employ- 
ed in collecting all the pathetic circumstances, the 
judgment displayed in disposing them ; the exer- 
cise, I say, of these noble talents, together with 
the force of expression and beauty of oratorial 
numbers, diffuse the highest satisfaction on the 
audience, and excite the most delightful move- 
ments. By this means the uneasiness of the melan- 
choly passions is not only overpowered and effaced 
by something stronger of an opposite kind, but 
the whole impulse of those passions is converted 
into pleasure, and swells the delight which the 
eloquence raises in us. The same force of oratory 
employed on an uninteresting subject, would not 
please half so much, or rather would appear al- 
together ridiculous; and the mind being left in 
absolute calmness and indifference, would relish 
none of those beauties of imagination or expres- 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 193 

sion, which, if joined to passion, give it such exqui- 
site entertainment. The impulse or vehemence 
arising from sorrow, compassion, indignation, re- 
ceives a new direction from the sentiments of beauty. 
The latter being the predominant motion, seizes 
the whole mind, and converts the former into them- 
selves, at least, tinctures them so strongly as to- 
tally to alter their nature. And the soul being, at 
the same time, rouzed by passion and charmed by 
eloquence, feels, on the whole, a strong movement 
which is altogether delightful. 

" The same principle takes place in tragedy ; 
with this addition, that tragedy is an imitation % 
and imitation is always of itself agreeable. This 
circumstance serves still further to smooth the 
motions of passion, and convert the whole feeling into 
one uniform and strong enjoyment. Objects of the 
greatest terror and distress please in painting; and 
please more than the most beautiful objects that 
appear calm and indifferent. The affection rouzing 
the mind, excites a large stock of spirit and vehe- 
mence ; which is all transformed into pleasure by 
the force of the prevailing movement. It is thus 
the fiction of tragedy softens the passion by an in- 
fusion of a new feeling ; not merely by weakening 
or diminishing the sorrow. You may, by degrees, 
weaken a real sorrow, till it totally disappears ; 
yet in none of its gradations will it ever give 
pleasure, except, perhaps, by accident, to a man 



194 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

sunk under lethargic indolence, whom it rouzes 
from that languid state." 

To disprove Hume's theory it is sufficient to shew 
that it contradicts itself. I admit his theory may 
be right, though supported by erroneous arguments, 
but, in this case, we must receive it, not on his 
authority, but on the authority of some better ar- 
guments by which we can support it ourselves. 
The theory, however, is not only erroneous in itself, 
but supported by erroneous arguments. In com- 
menting on Du Bos, he says, that the distress which 
pleases in a tragedy would give us real pain if it 
were actually set before us ; and here he introduces 
Cicero describing real sufferings. The destruction 
of the Sicilian captains by Verres, was no fiction, 
and so Hume himself acknowledges ; " neither," 
he says, " is the sorrow here softened by fiction, for 
the audience were convinced of the reality of every 
circumstance." Would not the reader then sup- 
pose, that Hume introduced this description of real 
suffering, to shew that it produces real pain, as he 
had already observed, that the distress which pleases 
in fiction gives pain in reality. And yet he tells us 
now, that this picture of real distress gave high de- 
light to the judges and the audience. "Whenhehad 
raised tears in his judges and all his audience, they 
were then the most highly delighted. And yet this 
delight was caused by a picture of real, not imagi- 
nary distress." He still continues to contradict 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 195 

himself as he proceeds. "This extraordinary effect," 
he says, " proceeds from that very eloquence with 
which the melancholy scene is represented." He 
continues, as the reader may perceive in the above 
extract; to shew, that it is the beauty of the lan- 
guage, and not the tears occasioned by the distresses 
and sufferings which are described by Cicero, that 
produces the pleasure, and that the melancholy 
passions are overpowered and effaced by these 
beauties and converted into pleasure. Here we 
may truly say, 

Aliquando bonus dormitat Homerus ; 

for surely nothing can be more evident, than that the 
beauty of the language, so far from overpowering 
the melancholy feelings occasioned by the butcher- 
ing of the Sicilian captains, is the very cause of 
raising this feeling to its utmost height. It is by 
raising this feeling, and not by overpowering it, 
that the judges and audience were melted to tears. 
The truth of what I here assert can easily be 
proved by displaying this eloquence on some in- 
different subject. If the sensation produced by 
eloquence, independent of the subject, be more 
powerful than that occasioned by melancholy 
emotions, and converts these emotions into plea 
sure, it follows, that whatever the subject be, 
however trifling or uninteresting, it will enable the 
orator to excite deeper feelings than can ever be 

o2 



196 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

produced by tragic distress. I believe no person 
will admit this to be the case ; and Hume himself 
admits, that, " the same force of oratory employed 
on an uninteresting subject would appear altogether 
ridiculous;" and so it would; for that eloquence 
which leaves its subject behind it, or to the splen- 
dour of which its subject is not equal, is a mere 
brutumfuimen. It is not true, then, as Hume says, 
that the beauty of the language exciting " the 
predominant motions, seize the whole mind, and 
convert the former — the melancholy emotions — 
into themselves, at least tincture them so strongly 
as totally to alter their nature." The fact is, that 
the emotions produced by the sufferings of the 
Sicilians, so far from being altered by the language 
of Cicero, are only wrought up to the highest 
pitch ; and instead of being the weaker, are evident- 
ly the predominant passion. The judges and the 
audience are so powerfully swayed by their sym- 
pathies, that they comparatively forget the beauty 
of the eloquence by which they are moved. It is so 
in reading the Iliad, we forget Homer, and are af- 
fected only by the imposing scenes, daring actions, 
and pathetic situations which he has placed be- 
fore us. 

The tragic and the epic muse agree then in this 
capital circumstance, that the pleasures originating 
from them both, arise from the powerful emotions 
which they produce ; for it is a mistake, to sup- 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 197 

pose that the pleasure which we feel in the perusal 
of a tragedy or an epic poem, arises from the genius, 
ability, and strict adherence to rule with which it 
is executed. In vain does the tragic writer observe 
all the restrictions which criticism imposes on 
him ; in vain does he observe unity in the design, 
connexion in the scenes, a regular though inter- 
rupted progress in the action ; proper motives for 
appearing on, and disappearing from the stage ; 
and the most exquisite callida junctura through- 
out all its parts : — all this he may do, and more 
than all this ; but if he want the art of inventing 
interesting characters, and pathetic situations, 
such as excite strong sensations, emotions, or pas- 
sions, all his felicity of expression, happiness of 
description, and strict adherence to rule, produce 
no effect upon us. We look on, like cold specta- 
tors, and depart from the theatre less pleased 
than we entered it. On the contrary, the Tragic 
writer, who has the secret of inventing tender, affect- 
ing, and pathetic situations, or, what is the same, 
the art of exciting strong emotions, even at the 
expense of reason, will be always sure of pleasing. 
The reason is, that the most ignorant man cannot 
be deceived in what is pathetic : it excites the same 
feelings in him that it does in the most practised 
critic ; but, with regard to the violations of 
dramatic rule, in the conduct of the work, he is 
little acquainted, and, even if he were, the obser- 



198 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

vat ion of them could only afford him a negative 
pleasure, by enabling him to escape the pain of 
seeing them violated. What pleasure is imparted 
by observing the unities of time and place, for we 
should never have reflected whether they were 
observed or not, had we never seen them violated. 
I know, the greatest dramatic writer is he who 
moves the heart without offending the understand- 
ing, or violating established precepts ; but then it 
must be recollected, that rules and precepts are the 
mere links by which we connect things together. 
These links are themselves concealed from us, ex- 
cept where they are clumsily contrived, for the 
more skilfully they are fabricated, the more diffi- 
cult it is to discover them ; or, rather, the less apt 
we are to direct our attention to them. It is not, 
then, the links that connect, but the things con- 
nected, that affect us, as these links are kept wholly 
out of sight ; and, consequently, the situation 
which is not interesting in itself, will affect us but 
little, however, artfully it may be connected with 
another. If it be artfully connected, so much the 
better : it proves the writer a better artist ; but 
if he make use of inferior materials, that is, if his 
characters be not interesting, and placed in deep 
and affecting situations, all the art which human 
genius can exert in connecting these situations, 
can never succeed in exciting our sympathies. If 
it be asked, whether the generality of the audience 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 199 

be proper judges of what is truly affecting, I reply, 
the most ignorant of them are. Sympathy cannot 
be taught : if nature denied it, education could 
never have imparted it. It is not the offspring of 
reason or science; for a simple feeling cannot be 
analyzed, nor its mode of action explained. Though 
we agree in calling that feeling, which is produced 
by objects of distress, sympathy, we cannot tell 
whether any two of us feel it alike. If one man 
be more moved than another, how is he to explain 
the exact degree of emotion which he feels ; and 
without such an explanation, he cannot tell 
whether he feel the emotion differently, or what the 
degree of difference is. The most ignorant of us 
have therefore, as ample means of judging of the 
pathetic, as the most learned, for neither acquires 
his knowledge of it from instruction or science. 
Our ideas, and the comparisons which we institute 
between them, are the source of our knowledge, 
and, consequently, may be communicated and 
corrected by instruction ; but our feelings are the 
sources of our pleasures and of our pains, and are 
incapable of being taught. We cannot learn to 
feel pain, unless we are acted upon by a cause 
sufficient to produce it ; nor can we learn to avoid 
feeling pain when such a cause acts upon us. The 
Tragic writer has, therefore, no cause to fear, when 
he presents the audience with a tender or pathetic 
scene, that they will not be able to perceive it, for 



200 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

if they do not perceive, at least they will feel it, 
and if they do not feel, he is mistaken in suppo- 
sing it pathetic; the most enlightened part of the 
audience will think it frigid and uninteresting, as 
well as the most ignorant. 

It is not, therefore, the art, or perfection of me- 
thod observed in the conduct of tragedy, that ex- 
cites those strong sensations and emotions which 
produce the pleasure arising from Tragic Repre- 
sentations. We are far from being so much in- 
terested in seeing every thing as it ought to be, as 
we are in seeing many things as they ought not to 
be. Where every thing is right, nothing surprizes, 
and, therefore, a perfect character excites no inte- 
rest in a tragedy. He only does what we expect 
him to do, and hence he does nothing to excite 
strong emotions. Neither are we pleased to see 
every thing wrong, for when a character is so con- 
ummately wicked as to disregard every moral 
precept, and never act in obedience to the laws of 
his own nature, (I mean human nature) we are 
disgusted : we are surprised at no act of his, be- 
cause we know, antecedently, that he is capable of 
the worst of crimes. He produces, therefore, no 
strong sensations, and, consequently, no interest, 
and where there is no interest there is no plea- 
sure. This is evidently the reason why critics have 
laid it down as a law, that the character best fitted 
for tragedy is an imperfect character, he who is 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 201 

neither perfectly moral, nor irreclaimably wicked. 
No critic, however, has ever assigned a reason why 
the imperfect character is best adapted for tragedy; 
but the theory which I have endeavoured to esta- 
blish on the subject of Tragic Pleasure, easily ex- 
plains the cause. No character can excite strong 
sensations that is not more or less imperfect, or 
that acts just as he ought to act, for, in doing so, 
he does nothing to surprize us, or to excite those 
sensations, without which it is idle to hope, that 
the most laboured tragedy shall ever be productive 
of pleasure. 

Hume, then, is evidently in error, when he attri- 
butes the effect to " the genius required to paint 
objects in a lively manner, together with the force 
of expression and beauty of oratorial numbers." 
Without genius, it is true, no writer can produce 
an interesting tragedy ; but a writer of inferior 
genius, who brings together a number of pathetic 
circumstances and situations, shall impart more 
pleasure, even though he should violate some of 
the principal laws of dramatic criticism, than he 
who is rigidly observant of them, if he has invent- 
ed only circumstances and situations of a cold 
and frigid nature. I would be far from insinua- 
ting, that the dramatic writer who invents inte- 
resting and pathetic scenes, is at liberty to indulge 
in all the licentiousness which an exuberant ima- 
gination can suggest, but however licentious he 



202 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

may be, be will impart more pleasure, simply be- 
cause he excites stronger sensations than he who, 
without this genius, is most observant of rule and 
dramatic precept. 

The theory of Tragic Pleasure which I have now 
examined, is obviously a compound, made up of 
three theories. Du Bos, Fontenelle, and Hume, 
have each contributed their portion ; but the ori- 
ginal idea seems to have been taken from Mon- 
taigne. The soul, he says, must have always some 
object to employ it, and when it has not a legiti- 
mate one, it creates a false one for itself. He com- 
pares the soul to the wind, whose strength is in- 
creased by resistance, and broken where no object 
stands opposed to its violence. 

Ventus, ut amittat vires nisi robore densse 
Occurrant sylvae spatio diffusus inani. 

Hence, he says, to give a view a proper effect, it 
must be bounded, and not suffered to lose itself 
in the uncertain distance, for the soul must have 
something fixed to act upon, or it will employ itself 
with imaginary objects, rather than remain quiet. 
This propensity of the soul, he illustrates by no 
ticing a similar law operating on the irrational 
brute. " Ainsi emporte les betes leur rage a s'at- 
taquer a la pierre, et au fer qui les a blessees, et a se 
venger a belles dents sur soymesme du mal qu'elles 
sentent. 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 203 

Pannonis haud aliter post ictum saevior ursa 
Cui jaculum parv& Libys amentavit habena, 
Se rotat in vulnus, telumque irata receptum 
Impetit et secnin fugientem circuit bastain. 

Xerxes fouetta la mer et escrivit un cartel de defie 
aa Mont Athos." 

These observations of Montaigne appear to me 
to have been the origin of Du Boss theory of Tra- 
gic Pleasure, though Montaigne himself never 
thought of applying them to pleasures arising 
from tragic sources. That Du Bos had his eye 
upon them, however, can hardly be doubted, when 
he wrote the following passage. " L'ame a ses be- 
soins comme le corps ; etl'un des grands beioins 
de l'homme, est celui d'avoir Fesprit occupe. L'en- 
nui qui suit bientot Pinaction de Tame est un mal 
si douloureux pour l'homme quil entreprend sou- 
vent les travaux les plus penibles afin de s'epairgner 
la peine d'en etre tourmente." 

It is certain, that the mind cannot be happy in 
a state of inaction, though it is possible that it may 
be free from all sensible pain. Some men will sit 
hours alone, without evincing the least disposition 
to enter into conversation, or mingle in the amuse- 
ments of which they are spectators, which they 
w r ould never do if this inaction was attended with 
any sensible pain. That it is not attended with 
pleasure I am willing to allow, unless the mind 
be exercised in mental speculation ; but still it 



9M PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

proves that inaction is not always a torment. It 
matters little, however, whether it be so or not, 
so far as regards Tragic Pleasure, for if the neces- 
sity of employing- the mind account for this plea- 
sure, it follows, that every thing that employs the 
mind is necessarily pleasing, for, if not, tragedy may 
be among those things which employ the mind, 
and still are not pleasing, and, therefore, we must 
have recourse to something beyond the mere neces- 
sity of employing the mind to account for this plea- 
sure. It is, indeed, certain, that the mind is never 
happier than when employed in any thing agree- 
able to it; but it is equally certain, that it is never 
more unhappy than when employed in what is 
disagreeable. It is not, therefore, the mere act of 
employing the mind that gives pleasure, but the 
nature of the thing in which it is employed ; and, 
consequently, it is idle to attribute the pleasure to 
the mere act of being employed, instead of attri- 
buting it to the nature of the employment. 

Mr. Hazlitt, following Du Bos, says, that "the 
pleasure derived from tragic poetry has its source 
and ground-work in the common love of strong 
excitement." " We are as fond," he says, " of in- 
dulging our violent passions, as of reading a de- 
scription of those of others. We are as prone to 
make a torment of our fears, as to luxuriate in our 
hopes of good. If it be asked why we do so, the 
best answer is, because we cannot help it. The 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 205 

sense of power is as strong a principle in the mind 
as the love of pleasure. The objects of terror and 
pity exercise the same controul over it as those of 
Jove or beauty. It is as natural to hate as to love, to 
despise as to admire, to express our hatred or con- 
tempt, as our love or admiration." To this theory 
there are two obvious objections : the first is, that 
it is far from being true in the unqualified man- 
ner in which it is put by Mr. Hazlitt ; the se- 
cond, that all the reasons by which he seeks to con- 
firm it are erroneous. It is not true that all strong 
excitements are pleasing, because, above a certain 
degree of intensity they are insufferably painful. 
" It by no means holds," says Mr. Campbell, in his 
Essay on this subject, " that the stronger the emo- 
tion is, so much the fitter for this purpose. On the 
contrary, if you exceed but ever so little a certain 
measure, instead of that sympathetic, delightful 
sorrow which makes affliction itself wear a lovely 
aspect, and engages the mind, not only to hug it 
with tenderness, but with transport, you only ex- 
cite horror and aversion." This opinion of Mr. 
Campbell is easily proved by experiment. The in- 
stance adduced by Fontenelle proves it sufficiently. 
Tickling is pleasing, in a slight degree : increase 
this pleasure, by increasing the action, and it be- 
comes painful. According to Mr. Hazlitt, how- 
ever, this increased excitement ought to give more 
pleasure than a slight one; for if pleasure depend 



206 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

on the strength of the excitement, the stronger 
itiathe greater the pleasure. This, however, is 
not the fact. Strong- excitement is pleasing only 
in a certain degree, and above this degree is al- 
ways painful. There are two other cases in which 
strong excitements fail of imparting pleasure in 
any degree, the one is where the excitement is too 
long continued, the other where we are acted upon 
as individuals, placed in particular situations, 
and not as men in general, as will be shewn 
hereafter. Mr. Hazlitt's theory, therefore, will 
not hold good in a thousand instances, and the 
reason that he assigns for this theory, proves that 
he has taken it from Du Bos and Fontenelle, for, 
if he had discovered it himself by reflection and 
observation, he would never have advanced such 
futile and contradictory reasons in support of it. 
" It is as natural," he says, " to hate as to love, to 
despise as to admire, &c." But what reason does he 
assign for hatred, and all the other disagreeable 
passions, being as pleasing to us as the agreeable 
ones ? Why, truly, " because we cannot help it." 
Now, if we hate because we cannot help it, it is 
evident that we find no pleasure in hatred, for we 
find no pleasure in any thing that is forced upon 
us, and that we cannot help. The passion that 
gives us real pleasure, we cherish and indulge, not 
because we cannot help it, not because it forces 
itself upon us, but because we do not choose to 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 207 

help it, because we should not repel it even if we 
could. To say that the disagreeable passions are 
as " natural" to us as the agreeable ones, is saying 
nothing to the point, for though they are, unques- 
tionably, as natural to those who yield to them, it 
by no means follows, that they are as pleasing, for 
a thing may be natural, and still extremely disa- 
greeable. It is natural for a man to feel a disa- 
greeable taste, when he drinks wormwood, though 
it is by no means natural that he should be pleased 
with it. If it should be replied, that the benefit 
he expects to derive from it converts this pain into 
pleasure, instances may be quoted without num- 
ber, where such a conversion can never take place. 
It is natural that he whose arm is cut off by a 
sword should feel extreme pain, but it cannot, by 
any torture of argument, be shewn, that this pain 
is a pleasure. If, then, the reason by which Mr. 
Hazlitt supports his theory have any truth in it, 
it follows very evidently, that a merchant who is 
ruined at sea must derive great pleasure from the 
circumstance ; for, as it is natural (so far as we 
know nature from experience) that the circum- 
stance should give him pain, and, as whatever is 
natural, according to Mr. Hazlitt, is pleasing, the 
merchant's natural pain must evidently be a plea- 
sure to him, so that pleasure and pain, according 
to Mr. Hazlitt's logic, are both the same. Indeed, 
he shews very clearly himself, that the pleasure ari- 



208 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

from Tragic sources did not appear to him 
to be a pleasure at all, though he calls it a pleasure, 
and endeavours to account for it. " The sense of 
power," he says, "is as strong a principle in the 
mind, as the love of pleasure." From this it is 
clear, that the sense of power is different from the 
love of pleasure ; for, if they were the same, he 
could institute no comparison between the degrees 
of energy with which they act upon the mind. If, 
then, the sense of power be not a pleasure, and that 
it is to gratify this sense we indulge in the " violent 
passions," how can it be said that these passions 
afford us any. pleasure ? Nothing, at the same 
time, appears more unintelligible to me, than what 
Mr. Hazlitt means by this sense of power, as he 
says, in the preceding sentence, that our reason 
for " indulging our violent passions," is, " because 
we cannot help it" If we cannot help it, then, what 
becomes of this " sense of power." To me it has 
no meaning, unless Mr. Hazlitt meant want of 
power, by the expression " sense of power." If 
Mr. Hazlitt's theory, then, were true, the reasons 
by which he supports it could only serve to make 
it appear erroneous in the eyes of every man, who 
could not perceive its truth abstracted from the 
arguments on which it rests. It is certain, how- 
ever, that no process of reasoning can prove all 
strong excitements and sensations pleasing in any 
of the three cases which I have mentioned, though 



THE SOURCR OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 209 

it is equally certain, that they are so in all oilier 
instances. The more we enter into human nature, 
and examine the laws by which it is governed, the 
more we must feel convinced, that the soul delights 
in all strong, ardent, and impetuous feelings and 
emotions, when they do not act above a certain de- 
gree, continue too long, or affect us, not as men in 
general, but as individuals, either of peculiar tem- 
pers, or placed in situations that influence our na- 
tural temper. This attachment to strong feelings 
does not, however, arise from our incapacity of 
resisting them, as Mr. Hazlitt asserts, but from our 
unwillingness to resist them, from our actual, vo- 
luntary attachment to them, and the actual plea- 
sure they communicate at the moment. When we 
continue for any length of time in one state of 
feeling, the soul becomes, in a manner, uncon- 
scious of its existence, and continues so until it is 
roused by some circumstance, object, or event, 
and a new feeling excited within it. The moment 
this new sensation is felt, it finds itself placed in 
a new world ; it feels itself different from what it 
ever felt itself before, for as it has no. consciousness 
of its existence but what it derives from its sensa- 
tions and perceptions, that is, from the impressions 
made upon it from without, each new sensation 
appears to it a new mode of existence, and, were 
it not for the faculty of memory, it could form no 

p 



4 210 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

conception of any other mode than that which it 
immediately feels* 

Even with this faculty life consists in the present 
moment, or rather in the feelings or sensations of 
the moment ; but the reminiscent power enables 
us to revive past feelings, and* to become again, in 
a manner, what we were before. We have no idea 
of soul, or spirit, or animated existence, considered 
separately from the structure of parts which it 
animates, but what we acquire from our sensations 
or consciousness of it ; for our ideas or perceptions 
are confined to the properties, relations, and differ- 
ences of things, and take no cognizance of their es- 
sence, or the mode in which life is felt. The soul, or 
vital principle, it is true, consists not in sensation, 
perception, or will, but in that inconceivable some- 
thing which feels, perceives, and exercises volition. 
The power which feels, however, or, in other words, 
the soul, would have no consciousness of its exist- 
ence if no impressions were made upon it from with- 
out ; and when it is weary of these impressions and 
becomes incapable of feeling them, all consciousness 
of existence ceases. Hence it is that we have no 
consciousness of existence while we sleep, though 
the vital principle continues. If, then, our con- 
sciousness of life consists in our sensations of it, 
or rather, if our sensations be new modes of con- 
sciousness, it is obvious that each new sensation 






THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 211 

is a new sort of existence; for though the power 
or principle that feels is always the same, yet every 
new sensation makes it appear different to us, be- 
cause we have no idea or feeling of it but what arises 
from our sensations. From our feelings or sensations, 
then, we derive our consciousness that something 
within us exists. This something we call soul or 
spirit, but what it is we can neither describe nor con- 
ceive: we know it only by our feelings, and, therefore, 
so far as regards our knowledge of it, it appears to 
be a sensation eternally shifting the mode of its 
existence; but in whatever mode we examine it, 
we still find it to be a sensation of one kind or 
other, though the moment we come to abstract, we 
know that the sensation is different from the thing 
by which the sensation is felt ; sensation being 
only a mode or property of something else. The 
soul or vital principle appears, therefore, to us at 
every moment a sensation, though the sensation 
of one moment differs from that of another. The 
same principle that attaches us to life consequently 
attaches us to sensations, and the more powerfully 
any sensation is felt, the more conscious are we of 
the vital principle within us. Hence it is that we 
love strong sensations, if not in the same propor- 
tion that we love life itself, at least in a degree al- 
ways proportioned to it ; for he who once becomes 
tired of his existence, suffers no new sensation to 
approach him ; and, therefore, looks with indifter- 

p2 



212 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

enoe on every thing calculated to produce it. It 
is only while we are in love with life that we are in 
love with strong- sensations ; and it is only while 
we feel strongly that we can be properly said to 
live. Every weaker feeling gives a weaker con- 
sciousness of existence, so that some men can 
scarcely be said to live at all. Here then we have 
the origin of the pleasures resulting not only from 
Tragic Representations, but from every species 
of public exhibition, as the fights of gladiators 
among the Greeks and Romans, pantomimes, bull- 
feasts, &c. They all awaken strong sensations, 
emotions^ or passions in the soul, and, consequent* 
ly, a stronger consciousness of existence. The de- 
gree in which the sensation is felt always determines 
the degree of pleasure which it imparts, and the plea- 
sure always increases with the degree till it reaches 
to absolute pain. Where it becomes painful de- 
pends on our susceptibility of impressions. " Men 
differ in this," says Helvetius, " that the degree of 
emotion which one regards as an excess of pleasure, 
is sometimes, in another, the beginning of pain. 
The eye of my friend may be pained by an excess 
of light that gives me pleasure." When a strong 
sensation becomes painful we wish to get rid of it, 
if the pain be intolerable ; but if not, even the ac- 
companying pain cannot induce us to resign it. 
A strong sensation puts the soul in motion, 
and if we could conceive an idea of motion ab- 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 213 

stracted from substance, if we could conceive it a 
thing and not a mode, we should have good reason 
for believing motion to be the soul itself. " If we 
always give the name of cause and effect to the 
concomitance of two parts," says Hume, " and 
that wherever there are bodies there is motion, we 
ought then to regard motion as the universal soul 
of matter, and the divinity that alone penetrates 
its substance." Motion, however, is not the divinity 
unless the divinity be an attribute ; but it is at all 
times pleasing to the soul, unless it be moved in 
such a degree as tends to force it altogether from 
its material habitation. A slight titillation pro- 
duces a pleasing sensation, because it puts the soul 
in motion, and as the sensation increases the plea- 
sure increases also ; but when it arrives to a cer- 
tain height, it overpowers the soul, and, consequent- 
ly, becomes painful. All sensations, then, that 
rouse the soul are pleasing up to the degree that 
renders them painful ; so that, if it should be said 
the soul is not a lover of strong sensations, because 
it dislikes all sensations above this degree, I reply, 
that it would still continue to like them if its 
strength of endurance were equal to the increased 
power of the sensation ; for as " the eye of my 
friend may be pained by the excess of light that 
gives me pleasure," it is evident that if my organ 
of vision were as weak as my friend's, it would give 
me pain also; and, therefore, it follows, that if his 



211 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

organs were as strong as mine, it would give him 
the same pleasure which it affords me. Reasoning 
from the same analogy, were both our organs 
stronger, they would find greater pleasure in still 
greater light; so that the highest degree of light 
would be, of all others, the most pleasing to the 
soul, if the eye could endure it. It does not follow, 
however, that because we cannot endure it, we do 
not love it. The fly cannot endure the flame of 
the candle, but still it loves this flame ; it hovers 
around it, approaches it frequently, at the peril of 
its life, seems conscious of the danger of approach- 
ing it nearer, cannot overcome, however, the 
instinct that prompts it to a nearer approach, and 
in obedience to the fatal impulse, perishes in the 
flame. By strong sensations, however, it must be 
recollected that I do not mean strong, disagreeable 
tastes or organical sensations of any kind, which do 
not tend to put the soul into action, and affect it like 
passion, the physical symptoms and signs of which 
are, in general, an irregular movement of the blood 
and animal spirits. 80 strong is our attachment 
to powerful sensations that we relish them, even 
when they are painful to a certain degree. Young 
people cannot endure to chew tobacco, but even in 
youth few are disgusted with the smoke of a to- 
bacco pipe, because it puts the animal spirits in 
motion. By degrees they love a greater and a 
denser portion of it, because they always loved as 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 215 

much of it as they could endure. At length, they 
venture to take a single blast, and are pleased 
with the sensation. If they do not take a second 
it is not because they have a dislike to it, but be- 
cause they are not able to endure it. The moment 
they imagine themselves able, they venture to take 
two; and after they find they can endure this 
they take three. Thus they continue increasing 
the proportion, because they are pleased with the 
stronger sensation which results from it. Hence 
we find, that those who can endure the strong sen- 
sation prefer it to the weaker ; that no person is 
satisfied with mild tobacco who can endure stronger, 
nor even with stronger if he can endure the 
strongest ; and that he who is obliged to smoke 
mild tobacco does so, not because he prefers it to 
the strong, but because he has not nerve to endure 
it stronger. There is no person who smokes mild 
tobacco who will not avow that he wishes he could 
take it stronger, and who does not, perhaps, ven- 
ture sometimes to do so in obedience to this wish, 
except his reason triumphs over his natural pro- 
pensity to strong sensations, and advises him either 
to moderate this propensity, or abandon smoking 
altogether. 

Mr. Knight, in accounting for the preference we 
give to tastes originally disagreeable, to those simple 
tastes with which we are pleased in our youth, 
calls the former acquired, and the latter natural, 



'216' PHILOSOPHICAL ENQUIRY INTO 

tastes ; and says that, " all those tastes which are 
natural, lose, and all those which are unnatural, 
acquire strength by indulgence." Among which 
he instances the taste and smell of tobacco. This 
does not appear to me to be philosophical language. 
It is not philosophical to call the taste of tobacco 
unnatural; first, because it is a natural plant; 
secondly, because if the taste which it produces be 
unnatural, it follows that the taste which it pro- 
duces is not that which it ought to produce, but 
some other, for whatever produces what it ought 
to produce, necessarily produces a natural effect. 
Tobacco has the same taste to all men : this 
uniform effect must, consequently, be natural; nor 
indeed can any production of nature produce an 
unnatural effect, for even admitting that it does 
not produce the same effect in different individuals, 
the effect produced in each is still natural, because 
it arose not from any difference of operation in 
the cause, but from organical differences in the 
subjects acted upon. All tastes then are natural 
tastes, nor is there any thing gained by call- 
ing them acquired, as this epithet cannot serve 
to distinguish them from others. Man is born 
without ideas or relishes of any kind, so that he 
can have no particular taste which can be called 
natural before the body or fluid which produces 
this taste be received into the mouth. The taste 
of tobacco is communicated in the same manner, 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 217 

and the knowledge of both is acquired by the same 
means, and, therefore, one is as much an acquired 
taste as the other. The true cause, then, of the 
greater pleasure which tobacco affords, is, as I have 
already shewn, the strong and animating sensa- 
tion which it produces. 

The sensible properties, therefore, of all sub- 
stances which affect the animal spirits are pleas- 
ing, until their action upon the organ becomes 
actually insupportable. The degree of pleasure 
always depends on the degree of power which we 
possess of supporting the sensations by which it is 
produced, and the degree of pain depends, in like 
manner, on our own impotency, or incapability of 
enjoyment. 

This is the true rule by which all our organic 
pleasures and pains are determined. The greater 
power we possess of enjoying any pleasure, or of 
supporting the sensation by which it is produced, 
the greater is our desire for it ; and the greater our 
desire, the more exquisite is the pleasure which 
attends its gratification. Impotent desires pro- 
duce no pleasure, even when they are gratified ; 
but the gratification of strong desires produce a 
pleasure exactly proportionate to the strength of 
the craving which solicits its enjoyment. When 
the stomach is voracious, the greater is our power 
of digestion, and our desire of eating; and the 
pleasure of eating is always proportionate to the 



J1S PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

strength of this desire. In fact, the commonest 
fare is luxury to a hungry stomach. 

Jcjuuus raro stomachus vulgaria temnit.— HoR. 

If the power of digestion were not always propor- 
tionate to our desire for food, a glutton would soon 
be carried off by indigestion and internal obstruc- 
tions ; and, if our relish for food were not in like 
manner proportionate to the cravings of the sto- 
mach, we should equally perish, because the mouth 
would reject that nourishment of which the sto- 
mach stood in need. It is true, the power of digestion 
does not always equal the desire for food, but this 
arises not from natural, but from artificial desires. 
He who is governed by the simple impulses of the 
stomach, never seeks for more food than he is 
able to digest, as is the case with almost all 
brute animals, but the mind creates new im- 
pulses of its own, and has recourse to artificial 
stimuli, to assist it in procuring enjoyments of 
which nature does not stand in need. These en- 
joyments, however, it must be recollected, are sen- 
sations of a stronger nature than those which the 
animal economy requires, which is a new evidence 
that, constituted as we are, strong sensations are, 
of all others, the most pleasing and agreeable to 
us. 

To all men, therefore, the infirm as well as the 
strong, powerful sensations are pleasing, except 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 219 

in the three instances already mentioned. In- 
crease a slight disagreeable sensation and it be- 
comes immediately pleasing. A grating sound 
produces a disagreeable sensation, but increase 
it suddenly to the utmost height, and you feel 
an immediate pleasure. The more tremendous 
the sound, the more we delight in it, unless it 
actually stuns us, and then it becomes painful. 
I am aware that the sensation produced by loud 
sound wants that character of gaiety and light- 
ness to which we give the name of pleasure, but 
it must be recollected, that pleasure is not con- 
fined to one modification of feeling; and that it is 
a genus which embraces every sensation, or im- 
pression, in which we delight, or which we do not 
feel inclined to suppress, the moment it is felt. If 
a tremendous, loud, grating sound be not pleasing, 
why do we stand to listen to it ? Why are we all 
attention, at the moment, and seem fearful of 
losing the slightest portion of the effect. Why, 
then, is the soul pleased with a loud, and displeased 
with a low, grating sound ? Evidently because it 
delights in strong sensations, not actually painful. 
If it be asked, what constitutes a slight, what a 
strong, and what a painful sensation, I reply, our 
own feelings, what is a slight sensation to one, 
being a strong sensation to another, and a painful 
to a third. Perhaps, however, something like a 
rule may be laid down, that may enable us to dis- 
tinguish where each of these sensations terminate. 



220 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

A sensation that passes not to the sensorium com- 
mune, or sensitive soul, but continues to affect only 
the primary sensory or organ through which it is 
received, may be properly called a slight sensa- 
tion ; not that we can feel any organic sensation 
of which the sensorium commune, or soul, is igno- 
rant, but it feels them as something external, some- 
thing incapable of moving it to pleasure, or forcing 
it to pain. Thus, if a man takes me by the hand, 
I feel a sensation where his hand is in contact 
with mine ; but this is the only sensation I feel ; 
and, therefore, I call it a slight sensation : but if I 
happen to be in love, and that the object of my 
affections takes me by the hand, I feel a sensation, 
as before, in my hand, and this sensation is, as in 
the former case, a slight one ; but then I feel ano- 
ther sensation, of which I was in the former in- 
stance totally unconscious, and this sensation is 
felt, not in the hands or feet, or any particular 
member that I can mention : it is felt, if I may 
use the expression, every where and no where. In 
a word, it pervades the whole frame. This is what 
I would call a strong sensation, namely, a sensa- 
tion that does not confine itself to the part where 
it was first felt, but passes on like an electric shock, 
and communicates itself to ail parts of the sys- 
tem. These are the sensations which are always 
pleasing, unless they act so powerfully on the 
member through which they are communicated as 
to give actual pain, and, even then, they are pleas* 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 221 

ing, unless the pain be so intense as to render us 
incapable of feeling the internal pleasing emotion. 
The pleasure which a lover enjoys in stealing a 
kiss from his fair one, is so great, that he is insen- 
sible of pain though she should happen to bite his 
lips in the very act ; but if he received the same 
bite from a person to whom he had no attachment, 
he would feel it acutely. The reason is obvious : 
the strong internal sensation produced by the kiss 
extinguishes the pain which is felt in the lips, and 
converts it into a pleasing sensation ; but if she bit 
off the lip altogether, the internal pleasing emo- 
tion produced by the kiss yields at the moment, 
to the intensity of the pain, and, therefore, the 
internal pleasure is not felt until the pain abates. 
This, however, does not prove that the strong in- 
ternal sensation is not.pleasing, for though, at the 
moment, it is not sensibly felt, yet its latent ex- 
istence is sufficiently proved by this circumstance 
alone, that it abates the acuteness of the pain ; 
for he whose lip is bit off by the beloved object of 
his affections, does not feel half the pain experienced 
by the man who loses his lip by the bite of a dog. 
In expelling disagreeable organic sensations, 
however, the soul can exert little power. If I 
prick my finger with a pin, I have no power of ex- 
pelling the sensation. I do not feel myself capable 
of making any exertion to that effect. On the 
other hand, if a slight sensation be agreeable to 
the soul, instead of wishing to expel it from the 



222 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

organ, it communes with it immediately, and ex- 
hausts the little portion of pleasure it is capable 
of imparting", unless a more pleasing object offers 
it higher enjoyment. The lighter sensation is 
always lost in the stronger. The organic senses 
are affected by the slightest impressions, but the 
soul, not being so easily moved, the sensations are 
felt only in the organs by which they are received, 
unless the pain be so intense as to transfix the 
soul. Thus, if I receive a slight blow on the 
arm, the sensation is felt in the part of the arm 
that receives the blow ; but if I receive a power- 
ful blow on any part of the body, by which I am 
knocked down, and stunned, or severely hurt, the 
pain is not felt more in the part where the injury 
was received, than in any other part of the body, 
as the soul flies immediately to its relief, and dis- 
perses the pain over the entire frame. It is only 
after the soul has withdrawn its attention from the 
wounded part, that the pain becomes local, and 
distinctly felt where the injury was received. 

It is certain, then, that the soul comes forward, 
and exerts its energies only when external circum- 
stances produce strong sensations. Hence we 
find, that men who have been frequently placed in 
trying situations, or situations that require a strong 
and diligent appropriation of the mental faculties, 
generally possess more mind and soul, or a greater 
ductility or pliability of the intellectual faculties 
to the exigencies and circumstances of time and 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 223 

place than others. There is little soul where there 
is little occasion for it, that is, where the objects 
we aim at require little more than animal or in- 
stinctive perception. Hence it is, that savages are 
not only stupid, but likewise indolent. Their men- 
tal powers remain always dormant, because they 
are strangers to the complicated interests of so- 
ciety, and are consequently never placed in situa- 
tions which call forth energies unknown to us all, 
till they are elicited by circumstances. 

As the soul, then, comes forward only on great 
occasions, it is obvious, that it is little affected by 
slight impressions, whether they be of an agreeable 
or disagreeable character. But when the organic 
sense is so powerfully affected, that the soul is 
forced out of its tranquil situation, and obliged to 
take part, or sympathize with the organic impres- 
sion, this sensation ceases to be a slight one, and 
belongs to those strong sensations which are pleas- 
ing to the soul. Strong sensations again become 
painful when their intensity is so great as to ren- 
der them insupportable. 

The organ of sight is the most refined, spiritual 
and intellectual, of all our organs, the most dis- 
criminating, and the most difficult to be pleased in 
tbe selection of its objects, and yet, spite of its 
fastidiousness, it is pleased even with deformity, 
whenever this deformity produces a strong sensa- 
tion. The sensation produced by ugliness, not- 



224 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

withstanding the power of mental associations, 
becomes pleasing-, when it produces a strong im- 
pression, that is, when ugliness is perceived in the 
highest degree. If an advertisement announced 
that the ugliest woman in Europe was to exhibit 
herself in London, there is little doubt but that 
thousands would attend the exhibition. Will it 
be said, that this would not arise from any plea- 
sure or gratification which her presence afforded 
them ? Why, then, should they crowd to see her? 
Are not facts more to be depended on than asser- 
tions ? I admit that none of the spectators might 
like her person ; but this argues nothing, for it is 
still evident that they like the strong sensation 
which her appearance is fitted to produce. 

How many climb the most dangerous precipices 
at the peril of their lives, merely to enjoy the strong 
sensation which it excites : how many explore sub- 
terraneous caverns, and proceed a considerable 
distance from the entrance, through no possible 
motive but that of gratifying the restless spirit of 
curiosity alone. I here use curiosity in the com- 
mon acceptation of the term ; but surely I will 
not be told, that it is curiosity, and not a passion 
for strong sensations, that prompts any person to 
visit these dark retreats, for we can form no idea 
of curiosity, abstracted from this passion. Cu- 
riosity is the term by which we express that feel- 
ing in man which prompts him to see what he 






THB SOURCE OP TRAQIC PLEASURE. 225 

never saw before, to discover what he never knew 
before, to place himself in circumstances and situ- 
ations in which he was never placed before. But 
why do we love to see what we never saw before? 
Certainly, for no other reason than that of enjoy- 
ing the sensation which it produces. Accordingly, 
we run to see the ugliest and most deformed ani- 
mals in nature, if we have never seen them before. 
If the sight of an ugly animal produced a disa- 
greeable sensation, why do we go and see it ? The 
very circumstance of going proves the sensation 
which it excites to be agreeable to us. But, it will 
be said, we cannot tell what sensation it may pro- 
duce until we see it first ; that we can, therefore, 
have no certainty, whether it be agreeable or not, 
and that, consequently, it is curiosity, and not the 
love of the sensation which prompts us to go. 
These objections may appear very specious, but I 
do not understand them ; and I suspect they are as 
unintelligible to those who make them as they are 
to me. If we cannot tell what sensation it may 
produce till we see it first, why do we go to see it ? 
The reason is obvious : because we know, from our 
own experience, that we like all sensations by 
which we are strongly moved, and that new sen- 
sations affect us more powerfully than those to 
which we have been long accustomed. If it should 
be said, that we have no conviction of the kind, 
I would ask, why do we go, after being told by 

Q 



226 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

those who have seen the animal, what sort of sen- 
sation it produces. Now, let them describe the 
sensation as they will, it does not prevent us from 
going-. On the contrary, the description is so far 
from preventing us, that the parent who wishes to 
gratify his children, takes them along with him, 
to enjoy the pleasure which he promises himself. 
This he would do, were he even assured before hand 
that the animal was the most deformed which 
imagination can conceive. In fact, the more de- 
formed any animal is represented, the more pow- 
erful is the desire that prompts us to see him ; and 
hence it is, that we are more desirous of seeing 
monsters than deformed natural objects. If, how- 
ever, he be not a deformed animal, the more beau- 
tiful he is desciibed, the more the passion for seeing 
him is excited. So far, then, as regards momen- 
tary pleasures, we prefer the two extremes, of 
beauty and ugliness, simply because we prefer 
strong sensations to weak ones. This cannot arise 
from curiosity, because curiosity is as much gra- 
tified by seeing a cat, if we have never seen one 
before, as by seeing a zebra or a rhinoceros. Yet 
we prefer the two latter, because one is a most 
beautiful, and the other a very ugly animal. If it 
be curiosity that prompts us to see an ugly animal, 
why do we go see him a second time ? Why do we 
bring others along with us, and imagine we gra- 
tify them by so doing ? If curiosity accounts for 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 227 

oar going the first time, it cannot explain the cause 
of our going a second. The fact is, that curiosity 
explains nothing : it is a mere bug-bear, by which 
people account for things which they do not under- 
stand, as the ancient philosophers explained all 
physical effects by calling them operations of nature. 
Curiosity is a term expressing an abstract idea, not 
a thing: there is nothing in nature called curiosity ; 
and, consequently, what has no existence cannot be 
the cause which prompts us to go and see an ugly 
animal. To be brief, curiosity is not the cause of any 
thing: it is, as I have already observed, a feeling with- 
in us, but not the cause of a feeling, for all our feel- 
ings are impressions or effects produced by other 
causes. When I desire to see a thing, I say I am cu- 
rious to see it, but it is absurd to say, that my being 
curious to see it, is the reason why I desire to see 
it, for being curious to see it, is here only another 
term for a desire to see it. Whatever creates the 
desire in me, is the very thing that creates my 
curiosity, so that curiosity and desire are both ef- 
fects, emanating from the same cause ; or, rather, 
they are different terms to express the same effect. 
Whatever, then, creates my desire of seeing any 
thing, is the cause of my being curious to see it, 
so that, in all cases, curiosity is an effect, and not 
a cause. 

But it will be argued that there are many strong 
sensations and agitations of the soul which are by 

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228 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

no means pleasing, and yet not so intense as to be 
insufferably painful, such as arise from losses in 
trade, the reflections of an ill-spent life, the recol- 
lection of former sufferings, or the privations of 
the moment, the intrusion of unwelcome visitors, 
&c. The sensations produced by the reflections of 
an ill-spent life, and the recollections of former 
♦sufferings or disgraces, are evidently sensations 
that come within the first and third exceptions 
which I have made to the pleasures arising from 
strong sensations. The reflections of an ill spent 
life torment only the individual who leads it. The 
rest of mankind can reflect upon an ill-spent life 
without pain. It is so with losses in trade : it is 
only he who feels the loss that is pained by reflect- 
ing upon it. The disagreeable sensations produced 
by unwelcome visitors, affect us also as individuals, 
not as men in general. What renders such visits 
disagreeable is the absence of the more agreeable 
sensations we fancy we might enjoy, had they not 
interrupted us. If, for instance, their society be 
insipid, we are uneasy, not because they produce 
disagreeable sensations in us, but because they pro- 
duce none at all. This is an affection of the 
mind, not of the senses, and proves rather, how 
uneasy it is in the absence of sensations, than how 
disagreeable it is rendered by them. If our dis- 
agreeable sensations arise from our being averse to 
company, at the moment, the effect arises from the 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 229 

particular situation of our mind, at that moment ; 
and, consequently, affects us as individuals, not as 
men in general. If they begin to abuse us, the 
disagreeable sensation arises from the same cause ; 
for abuse, and even blows, are disagreeable only to 
the person who receives them : to the rest of man- 
kind they are pleasing, because they produce a 
strong sensation. We cannot distinguish the agree- 
able from the disagreeable, except by the common 
feeling of mankind. The feelings of an individual 
determine nothing. Now, if abuse produce disa- 
greeable sensations, why do we see a crowd collect- 
ed round any two who begin to abuse each other 
in the street ? Is it not obvious that this abuse 
gives them pleasure, simply, because it produces a 
sensation sufficiently strong to render it interesting? 
If it be said that none stop to look on but the 
common people, I reply, that it is only from the 
common people we can discover what human na- 
ture is. All the difference between cultivated and 
uncultivated society is the work of the mind ; but 
with the revolutions performed by mental opera- 
tions, the philosopher has nothing to do, for if he 
take the operations of the mind into consideration, 
in treating of human nature, he has no data for 
reasoning, no ground to stand upon, because the 
mind acts differently in different people, whereas 
human nature is nearly the same in all, while it is 
suffered to act in its own way, and receives no 



230 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

check from mental associations. We cannot tell 
what becomes of a man, from the moment he suffers 
himself to be carried away by the mind, that is, 
from the moment he suffers the mind to convince 
him of things which are not in unison with his own 
feelings, sensations, and natural sympathies. So 
long as the intellect and the senses travel together, 
so long human nature is itself; but the moment 
they separate, the moment we begin to lend a deaf 
ear to our feelings, — to consider them as a blind in- 
stinct, on which no reliance can be placed, we be- 
come people with whom the philosopher has no 
concern, for there is no certainty to what extremes 
the mind may lead us. Perhaps the worst that 
may happen to us is to become fanatics or 
bigots, but it is just as natural that we become 
fools or madmen. It may be replied, however, that 
those who pass on, and take no heed of an abuse 
or riot, are much greater in number than those 
who stop. Before this be admitted, we must as- 
certain whether it be a natural aversion for the 
sensation produced by a riot that makes the majo- 
rity pass on, and take no heed, or whether their 
doing so does not arise from some other cause. 
That natural aversion has little to do in promoting 
this effect, can, I believe, be easily proved. The 
greater part of those who pass on are engaged in 
their own business, and experience informs us that 
the greater part of mankind seldom attend to, or 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 231 

indulge their natural propensities, when such an 
indulgence interferes with their immediate inter- 
ests ; for if self-preservation be the first law of 
Nature, self-interest may be considered the second, 
both being different modifications of self-love. The 
question, then, can only regard those who walk 
the street for their mere amusement, having no 
business to attend to. If these stop, they have no 
reason for doing so but to increase that happiness 
after which all men are in pursuit; for though 
they have nothing to do, it is evident they would 
not stop and look on, if the sensation produced 
were not agreeable to them. But it may be said, 
that many who have no business to attend to, 
would not, still, be seen witnessing a riot. I be- 
lieve it. But why would they not be seen ? Because 
their pride prevents them : because they think it 
would be degrading to them in the eyes of the 
world. The effect, then, is produced by pride, not 
by any thing disagreeable in the sensation, and 
what proceeds from pride is not the result of sen- 
sible impressions, pride being the offspring of edu- 
cation, high birth, mental associations, or some 
other accident. It is not, therefore, grafted in the 
original constitution of man, and must, conse- 
quently, be traced to the subsequent operations of 
the mind. In a word, there is not a person who 
passes by where a riot happens, but stops and looks 
on, unless he be prevented by business, pride, or 



232 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

some other mental influence. Some, for instance, 
will not stop through fear ; but fear is a mental 
influence. Some will not stop because they are 
taught to think it vulgar : these are also prevented 
by mental influences, because whatever proceeds 
from teaching, instruction, and education, neces- 
sarily proceeds from the mind, no matter whether 
what we are taught be true or false. Nature pro- 
duces her own effects upon us without any assist- 
ance from education, so that all that she cannot 
produce of herself must necessarily proceed from 
the mind. The sensations produced in us, there- 
fore, by the laws of nature, or the agency of na- 
tural objects, are perfectly distinct from those 
produced by education, even when education 
teaches nothing but truth ; but, in general, I be- 
lieve half what we are taught were better un- 
taught. Nature and education seldom go hand 
in hand ; and whenever they separate, education 
is error. We have no data for reasoning but our 
own feelings and sensations, which are, in other 
words, the impressions made upon us by the works 
of nature. If we cannot trust to these impres- 
sions, we have nothing else to trust to. To say 
that we should trust to reason, is only saying, that 
we should trust to the testimony of our own feel- 
ings : for we can reason only from what we know, 
and he who rejects all the knowledge he acquires 
through the medium of the senses, knows nothing, 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 233 

and therefore cannot reason at all. That nature 
and education do not always go together, is a fact 
of which every day's experience affords us a thou- 
sand proofs. Perhaps no proof can be stronger, 
and certainly none more to the point, than one 
drawn from the theory of sensations which I have 
here advanced. External influences excite in us a 
variety of pleasing sensations, emotions, and pas- 
sions : and we are so constituted by nature, that 
these emotions, unless we make a painful effort to 
suppress them, appear visibly in our countenance. 
Hence, except in rogues and hypocrites, the coun- 
tenance may be always trusted to, as a faithful 
index to the mind. Nature then evidently intend- 
ed, that the face should be a portrait of the mind, 
because we find it is so in every man who does not 
seek to counteract her impressions. But does 
education teach the same doctrine ? I regret to 
say, her precepts are so directly opposed to those 
of nature, in this respect, that there is little room 
left for surprise at Rousseau's asserting that * edu- 
cation confines the natural parts, effaces the grand 
qualities of the soul to substitute such as are tri- 
fling and apparent, but have no reality." Educa- 
tion teaches a child, never to suffer the internal 
emotion to suffuse the countenance. No matter, 
therefore, whether a child of quality be present at 
a tragedy or a comedy : he looks on the most tra- 
gical and the most comic scenes with a perfect 



234 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

sang-froid, because he is told it is vulgar to appear 
affected by any external influence. To make a child 
thus suppress his feelings, and look on the most 
comic and ludicrous scenes with perfect indiffer- 
ence, is, in other words, to eradicate nature, to 
enclose the heart in a case of steel, and render it 
not only inexorable to, but insensible of, every 
sympathetic impulse to which unsophisticated na- 
ture spontaneously resigns itself. How enviable 
is the savage state compared with an education of 
so perverted and perverting a character. 

If, then, we distinguish the agreeable from the 
disagreeable by the common feeling of mankind, 
it is obvious, that the sensation produced by abuse, 
&c. is a pleasing sensation, simply because all 
strong sensations are pleasing, which are not actu- 
ally painful,&c. Abuse is only disagreeable to the in- 
dividual abused, because it exposes him to the reflec- 
tion, and perhaps to the ridicule of others, if he sub- 
mit to it. Now, if he cannot resist it, he must submit, 
and it is this reflection on his own weakness, or, 
in other words, the particular situation in which 
he is placed, not the abuse, that gives him pain. A 
person capable of repelling abuse, and of punishing 
it, feels no disagreeable sensation in being abused: 
on the contrary, the satisfaction of punishing it is 
so great a pleasure to some people, that they seek 
to be abused. A person, therefore, confident of his 
own strength, or of the power he possesses of ol> 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 235 

taining satisfaction, is never irritated by abuse, 
whether he be of an irritable, or of a calm, philo- 
sophic temper. If the former, nothing gives him 
greater pleasure, than the satisfaction of punishing 
the person who abuses him: — if the latter, he is 
pleased with abuse, first because he has nothing to 
dread from the person who abuses him: secondly, 
because it gives him an opportunity of exercising 
his philosophy in witnessing the weakness of hu- 
man nature, and thirdly, because in listening to 
abuse with calmness, he feels his superiority over 
the person by whom he is abused, and the advan- 
tage of that philosophy which restrains him from 
punishing the offender. A strong man, therefore, 
can never be irritated by the abuse of a weak man 
unless he feel conscious of deserving it. This 
consciousness must consequently arise from recol- 
lecting some former transaction in which he used 
him ill ; and then he is affected by abuse as an in- 
dividual, not as a man, in general. Hence all strong 
sensations, are pleasing which affect us, not as 
individuals, but as men in general, unless they be 
intolerably painful, or too long continued. There 
is scarcely any person who consults his own feelings, 
who will not find that all his disagreeable sensa- 
tions, arise out of the particular situation in which 
he is placed. There is no situation, however, in 
which an individual can be placed, that excites so 
many disagreeable sensations, as the reflections 



236 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

and associations to which it gives rise. These re- 
flections are the most prolific source of human 
misery. The money I lose in trade, for instance, 
can produce no sensations in me, of any kind; for 
with regard to me, it has no existence. It is the 
reflection on the loss which I have suffered, there- 
fore, that makes me unhappy. In fact, every object 
in nature that produces astrong sensation, produces 
a pleasing one, unless it be so intense as to create 
actual pain ; or that the pleasure it is calculated to 
impart be counteracted by some mental association, 
or reflection, arising out of individual circumstan- 
ces. These associations, it is true, are so nume- 
rous, particularly with people who are disposed to 
be unhappy, that disagreeable sensations are more 
frequently felt by some people than agreeable ones; 
but in every instance, where such sensations are 
felt, nothing can be more easy than to shew, that 
they arise from affecting us as individuals, not as 
men in general, and that whatever produces a 
strong sensation in us, produces also a pleasing 
one, if the sensation be the same which it would 
produce in the generality of mankind. 

It is difficult for any person who has paid little 
attention to the subject, to conceive how power- 
fully associations and reflections, arising from in- 
dividual circumstances, influence, suppress, or 
heighten all our natural pleasures, so that the sen- 
sation which any external influence produces in 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 237 

our youth before circumstances begin to place us 
in particular situations, and exercise their dominion 
over us, is hardly ever found to be the same which 
it produces in our riper years. In youth, almost 
all sensations, and universally all strong sensations, 
are agreeable to us, unless they be actually painful, 
because we receive every impression as it comes, 
without any mental modification. In youth, then, 
we are affected as men in general, not as indi- 
viduals, a circumstance which has not been re- 
marked by any philosopher. The sensation pro- 
duced in us by every influence, or existing [cause, 
is that which nature intended it to produce in the 
bulk of mankind. In youth we never inquire how 
our sensations are produced, nor do we doubt the 
reality of the impressions which we receive at the 
moment. It is the philosopher alone, whose 

Heart, distrusting, asks if this be joy. 

When any sensible agency awakens in his breast 
the slumbering recipients of pleasure, he repels its 
influence, either because he begins to consider that 
this pleasure will be of short duration, and that the 
moment is at hand when he must abandon its en- 
joyment, without being able to replace it ; or be- 
cause he associates some idea with the cause of 
the pleasure which destroys its effect. A beautiful 
woman will communicate pleasure to a large com- 
pany of men, but if there be one among them who 
knows her to be an infamous character, he will, so 



238 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

far from enjoying any pleasure, feel a sensation ex- 
tremely disagreeable. Now it is obvious, that the 
impression she makes on the rest of the company 
is the natural impression, or the impression which 
her sensible appearance is intended by nature to 
produce ; and that the impression she makes on 
this individual, does not arise from her appearance, 
but from his possessing a particular knowledge of 
which they are ignorant : that is, from his being- 
placed in a particular situation, or in other words, 
from his being acted upon as an individual, not as 
a man in general. His knowledge, then, serves 
only to render him unhappy, because it suggests re- 
flections which intercept thepleasure he would other- 
wise enjoy. Solomon, therefore says wisely, that he 
who increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow. The 
rest are happy, because they feel only the impres- 
sion which the object before them is calculated to 
excite, and which it is calculated to excite in all 
men who are guided by their natural feelings. On 
the other hand, if the person who is rendered so un- 
happy by her presence, knew her to be of a most 
angelic, amiable disposition ; — if he were acquaint- 
ed with her private virtues, and the tender sensi- 
bilities of her heart, he would feel infinitely more 
pleasure in her society, than any other person in 
the company ; so that mental associations always 
serve to increase or diminish our natural pleasures. 
Of this truth, Hutchinson, from whom many of 



THE SOURCE OP TRAGIC PLEASURE. 239 

our late metaphysicians have borrowed a consider- 
able portion of their philosophy, seems to have had 
a very distinct perception. " The simple ideas," 
he says, " raised in different persons by the same 
object, are probably some way different, when they 
disagree in their approbation, or dislike, and, in the 
same person, when his fancy, at one time, differs 
from what it was at another. This will appear 
from reflecting on these objects to which we have 
now an aversion, though they were formerly agree- 
able : and we shall generally find, that there is 
some accidental conjunction of a disagreeable idea, 
which always recurs with the object, as in those 
wines to which men acquire an aversion after they 
have taken them in an emetic preparation. In this 
case, we are conscious that the idea is altered from 
what it was when that wine was agreeable, by the 
conjunction of the ideas of loathing and sickness 
of the stomach. The like change of idea may be 
insensibly made by the change of our bodies, as we 
advance in years, or when we are accustomed to 
any object, which may occasion indifference towards 
meats we were fond of in our childhood, and may 
make some objects cease to raise the disagree- 
able ideas which they excited upon our first use of 
them. Many of our simple perceptions are dis- 
agreeable only through the great intenseness of the 
quality ; thus moderate light is agreeable ; very 
strong light may be painful ; moderate bitter may 



240 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

be pleasant : a higher degree may be offensive. A 
change in our organs will necessarily occasion a 
change in the intenseness of the perception at least, 
nay, sometimes will occasion a quite contrary per- 
ception." This is the reasoning of a philosopher. 
What Hutchinson, however, calls a simple percep- 
tion, I call a simple feeling, that is, a feeling excit- 
ed by a simple natural cause, uninfluenced by any 
mental associations. As to perceptions, they are 
neither agreeable nor the contrary, for when any 
thing we perceive creates a painful sensation, this 
sensation is perfectly distinct from the perception. 
When I look with emotion upon an object that ex- 
cites no emotion in another, it is obvious that he has 
a perception of the object as well as I have. The 
emotion, consequently, which the perception ex- 
cites in me, must be different from the perception 
itself, for if not, he would be moved as well as I 
am. In him, therefore, the object excites a mere 
perception, but in me it excites a perception, and 
something else ; and this something else, which I 
call an emotion, sensation, or as the case may be, 
must necessarily be different from the. simple per- 
ception which it excites in both of us, and in which 
alone we agree. But it may be said, that when an 
object excites a sensation, or emotion in me which 
it excites in no one else, this sensation cannot be 
attributed to the object, but to mental associations, 
for if the object was calculated to produce it, the 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 241 

effect must have been equally felt by us both. If 
this argument be worth any thing, it proves, that 
when two men take an emetic, on one of whom it 
produces no effect, and on the other of whom it 
produces a very powerful one, the effect produced 
on the latter must not be attributed to the emetic, 
for if the emetic were calculated to produce such 
an effect, it must have produced it in both of them. 
Common sense is sufficient to perceive the absur- 
dity of such an argument, for everyone knows, that 
the emetic acted equally on both, though both were 
not equally passive, or flexible in yielding to its 
action. If all men were equally susceptible of 
impressions, all natural objects would produce the 
same effect upon them all, making allowances for 
mental associations. These associations, which al- 
ways arise from our being affected as individuals, 
not as men in general, are the most prolific source 
of disagreeable sensations, which, though not actu- 
ally painful, are still such as we do not relish. Thus, 
people whose associations are few, or in other words, 
ignorant people, are generally pleased with every 
sensation, because the sensation produced in them 
is always that which the exciting cause is natur- 
ally calculated to produce. But the moment the 
mind begins to examine how far the object is cal- 
culated to please, it either increases or diminishes 
the natural sensation. Instead, therefore, of being 
a simple sensation, it becomes a mixed feeling, de- 



242 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

riving part of its nature from the mind, and part 
from the senses. We cannot distinguish, it is true, 
such a feeling from a simple sensation, because the 
manner in which we are affected by simple sensa- 
tions themselves are infinitely diversified; but we 
can easily perceive, that the sensation which an ob- 
ject produces in a hundred men, who receive the 
impression unmixed with any mental association, 
will be extremely different from that which it pro- 
duces in a hundred literary men. In the former, 
the sensation will be nearly the same in all, because 
it produces a mere simple sensation in each of them, 
unmodified by any mental operation. Their sen- 
sations will always be to each other, in the same 
ratio as their degrees of natural susceptibility of 
impressions; but in the latter, there are scarcely 
two, whose sensations are the same, or even resem- 
ble each other, because the simple sensation which 
tl.e object was naturally fitted to produce, is height- 
ened, diminished, diversified, mingled with, or 
broken by, a thousand other sensations arising 
from such mental associations as the object sug- 
gested to the mind of each. In no two of them, 
however, will it awaken the same associations, be- 
cause each of them takes his from the particular 
department of literature which he has chiefly 
cultivated. In poetry alone, how different are the 
sensations which the same object would excite in 
poets of a different genius. In Homer, it might 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 243 

serve to give a new impetus to the anger of Achil- 
les, the wrath of Diomedes, or the unbending, un- 
compromising, and self-sufficient valour of the 
stubborn Ajax. In Virgil it would associate with 
milder scenes, and awaken recollections of a more 
tender and endearing character. The kindred 
images which it would suggest to the imagination 
of Horace would aptly serve to expose some ab- 
surdity, or recommend some virtue, in the human 
character; while it would furnish Milton with 
some of those sublime images which lead us to the 
contemplation of immaterial existence, and of 
scenes, which, though laid in another world, have 
their sole existence, perhaps, in the creative ima- 
gination of the poet. 

From the whole of what I have advanced on 
this subject, it is obvious, that we are so consti- 
tuted by the Deity, as to receive pleasure of one 
kind or other from every feeling that puts the soul 
into action, except as before excepted. There is 
not an object in nature but will render those men 
unhappy, who delight, if I may use the expression, 
in gloomy images. I call this attachment to 
gloomy images, delight ; for every man must de- 
light in that to which he is attached, and some 
men are eternally dwelling on dark-browed images, 
and scenes of horror. Such men may be properly 
said to take a pleasure in pain, for a pleasing object 
is more painful to them, than a disagreeable one, 

r2 



'244 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

simply because when the object is disagreeable, 
they view it as it is, without wishing to heighten its 
deformity; whereas an agreeable object sends them 
immediately in pursuit of some disagreeable image, 
or reflection that dispels its charms, and all the 
pleasing sensations which it is calculated to im- 
part. Such men, always 

Distrusting, ask, if this be joy, — 

and to prove that it is not joy, they have recourse 
to the melancholy reflection, that all pleasure is of 
short duration, if they have no other means of pro- 
ving it. But while the mind thus serves to embit- 
ter the most pleasing sensations which natural ob- 
jects produce, it has the same power of giving new 
zest and rapture to all our natural pleasures. The 
poet who is always a lover of nature, a lover of 
those early impressions which he felt in his youth, 
who retains and cherishes their memory as a pledge 
of the purest and most exquisite happiness which 
life can bestow, enjoys a continual feast through 
life, because he always associates some image of 
felicity to the most disagreeable and painful object. 
By the potent spell of association alone, he con- 
verts pain nto pleasure, a proof that all our happi- 
ness depends on ourselves, when our organic senses 
are perfect, and that pain is always the insepa- 
rable attendant of a distempered mind, a mind that 
loves to be unhappy, and in obedience to this pro- 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 245 

pensity, converts all the incipient vibrations of 
pleasure into actual and positive pain. 

A slight review of the senses will confirm the 
doctrine which I have advanced in this chapter, re- 
lative to sensations ; and shew, that ail pain is the 
extreme of pleasure, and that the strongest sensa- 
tions are always the most pleasing, where they do 
not rise to this painful extreme. Gay and splen- 
did is more pleasing than dull and faded colouring, 
because it excites a stronger sensation ; yet, when 
it becomes too brilliant and glaring, the sensation 
ceases to be pleasing, because it is converted into a 
mere organicai sensation, and affects only the eye, 
to which it becomes painful. The sense of hearing 
is equally gratified with sounds which produce 
strong sensations, such as are clear, shrill, distinct, 
and resonant ; but sharp and tinkling sounds pro- 
duce pain, because they affect only the primary 
sensory by which they are received, the soul re- 
fusing to admit them farther, or sympathize with 
them. The olfactory nerves are but slightly pleased 
with faded odours, but the pleasure increases with 
their degree of poignancy, till this degree becomes 
too pungent and stimulating, and then the pleasure 
is converted into pain, because it is felt only in the 
primary sensory. The taste is subject to the same 
law, delighting in rich and stimulating flavours, 
relishes, sauces, and whatever tends to affect not 
the mere organ of the tongue, but to put the entire 



246 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

man, the entire animal economy into action. The 
sense of feeling delights not in bodies that produce 
a mere sensation in the organs of touch. The 
bodies most pleasing to it, are those which, not con- 
fining the sensation to the external organ, commu- 
nicates it to the entire frame. Hence it happens, 
that although all the senses impart pleasure, by 
exciting a certain modification of feeling, yet the 
external sense of feeling, which is properly extend- 
ed over the whole surface of the body, is very 
limited in the pleasure which it imparts ; as there 
is hardly any external body which we touch that 
communicates the organical feeling to the soul ex- 
cept woman alone. As then there is no positive 
pleasure without this strong internal feeling that 
electrifies the soul, and as no object communicates 
this feeling in any positive degree, through the me- 
dium of feeling, but woman, it follows, that the 
pleasures arising from the external sense of feeling, 
are confined to the last best work of the creation. 
Whatever pleases the external sense of feeling, in- 
variably pleases the sight; but innumerable objects 
please the sight which impart no pleasure to the 
feeling. Thus we delight in seeing a beautiful 
painting, but if we touch it, the feeling cannot dis- 
tinguish the sensation, from that produced by com- 
mon canvas. In fact, the external sense of feeling 
is extremely limited in its pleasures, for I know of 
no object that imparts any sensible pleasure by the 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 247 

touch, but that which I have mentioned. Burke 
says, there is a pleasure in feeling smooth and soft 
bodies; but I suspect this pleasure arises, not so 
much from smoothness, as from association. The 
fair sex possess both these qualities, and our natu- 
ral attachment to them, inclines us to suppose, 
that whatever is soft and smooth, must also be 
pleasing. Without entering, however, into specu- 
lative ideas on the subject, one thing is obvious, 
that in the sense of feeling, as in all the other 
senses, the bodies most pleasing to us are those 
which impart a sensation that confines itself not to 
the external organ, but pervades the entire frame 
by a certain inexpressible, though communicable 
impulse. 

But it will be said, that all true pleasure and 
happiness consist in moderation, that beauty itself, 
which is the most pleasing of all objects, is a me- 
dium between extremes, and that pleasures verging 
upon extremes are always dangerous. All this I 
admit ; but while it is certain, that pleasure verg- 
ing on pain is dangerous, it is equally certain, that 
the higher pleasures are the more exquisite while 
they last, and the most sensibly enjoyed. The en- 
joyment of ardent pleasures, however, cannot last 
long ; and hence we very justly praise moderate 
enjoyment. This tempered pleasure is always 
more pleasing to a well-regulated mind; but the 
extreme of pleasure is always more agreeable to 



PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

the natural man, to him who never thinks on the 
consequence of indulging the desires of the mo- 
ment, but enjoys whatever he finds most pleasing 
while he is capable of enjoying it. The great en- 
joyment we derive in abstaining from these plea- 
sures arises from the reflection or consciousness, 
that we are fulfilling a moral duty, that by temper- 
ing our enjoyments, we render them more perma- 
nent, and retain the power of renewing them 
whenever we will. These, however, are mental 
pleasures, not the pleasures of sensation, which de- 
rives all its enjoyments from yielding instinctively 
to every pleasing impulse. 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 249 



CHAP. IX. 

Emotions and Passions, whatever be their Nature and 
Character, universally pleasing to those by whom they 
are felt. Objections answered* 

What I have said in the foregoing chapter 
chiefly regards the pleasures arising from strong 
sensations, and though these sensations are inti- 
mately allied with our emotions and passions, it 
will still be proper to treat of the latter by them- 
selves, as there is this difference between them and 
our sensations, that the latter are painful whenever 
they reach to a certain degree of intensity, where- 
as our emotions and passions are universally pleas- 
ing. It matters not, whether they affect us as in- 
dividuals, or as men in general ; whether they be 
moderate or intense ; whether they be momentary 
or permanent : in all cases, and under all circum- 
stances, pleasure is the inseparable attendant of 
our emotions and passions. This will appear evi- 
dent from the following view of their nature, and 
modes of operation. 

All the phenomena of mind and its affections, of 
life and its enjoyments, may be traced, as I have al- 
ready observed, to three distinct sources — abstrac- 



250 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

turn, sensation, and will. Two of these faculties 
are active, the other passive. The soul acts when 
it wills, when it traces relations and differences, to 
arrive at conclusions ; and when it combines, diver- 
sifies, and modifies the primary ideas which it has 
received through the medium of sense; but it is pas- 
sive when affected by organical impressions. The 
soul, however, is, in all cases, either the agent or 
percipient, the body being a mere instrument in 
such operations as require its instrumentality. 
Sensible vision, for instance, is performed through 
the medium of the eye, but it is not the eye that 
sees but the soul ; or, if it be the eye, it is not the 
material eye, but the soul living in this material eye, 
and hence taking cognizance of all its objects. If 
the body were all eye, the soul would see in all di- 
rections; but, constituted as we are, the rays of 
light falling on other parts of the body, cannot 
communicate themselves to the soul. The eye is 
the only part of the body sufficiently tender, suffi- 
ciently etherealized, or spiritualized, to be sensible 
of the action of such minute particles as those of 
light, and consequently the only part which can per- 
ceive the bodies by which they are reflected. The eye 
is, therefore, all soul, and, accordingly, its rapidity 
and extreme sensibility, wonderfully accord with 
its ethereal nature. Abstraction, sensation, and 
will, are therefore, no qualities of matter, for pure 
matter cannot feel, much less perceive or will. If 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 251 

feeling were a quality of matter, the fire which 
warms us, would feel the heat by which it is con- 
sumed. Sensation is, therefore, as much a faculty 
of the soul, as abstraction and will, though uni- 
versally considered as belonging to the material 
part of our nature. The only difference is, that 
abstraction and will are active faculties of the soul, 
while sensation i s a faculty perfectly passive. The 
soul does not act when it is sensible of an impres- 
sion : it is acted upon, and merely perceives the 
effect of the agency which acts upon it. It cannot 
avoid feeling this impression, whether it wills it 
or not, and therefore the sensation is produced by 
no act of its own. By abstraction, as an act of 
the soul, I mean intellectual perception, reflection, 
the power of comparing, analyzing, &c. The soul 
perceives through the eye that grass is green : this 
is a sensation ; but it perceives by comparison and 
reflection, that virtue is preferable to vice, and 
truth to falsehood, that a part is not equal to the 
whole, &c. These are not sensations, but intellec- 
tual perceptions. The soul has no power over 
what is properly called its sensations, while the 
organs through which it feels them are acted upon 
by their proper objects. If I prick my finger with 
a pin, I cannot help feeling pain, the soul having 
no power by which it can repel this sensation, or 
escape from feeling it. The only faculty which it 
can exercise, in this case, is that of informing me, 



PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

that such a sensation is not pleasing to it, and of 
directing me not to apply the pin to my finger. 
The soul then has the power of avoiding any sen- 
sation which it dislikes, by avoiding the object by 
which the sensation is produced ; but when once 
it suffers the object to act upon the organ, it has 
no power of resisting the sensation till the object 
be removed, and not even then, at all times. The 
soul is situated in the same manner with regard to 
its intellectual perceptions. Whenever it perceives 
any truth clearly, it cannot help perceiving it ; — it 
cannot bring itself to a conviction, that this truth 
is a falsehood. It is just as impossible for the soul 
to confound truth with error, when once it perceives 
the distinction, as it is for God to do any thing 
that implies a contradiction. It is not, however, 
to be inferred from this, that the soul has no free 
will, for the argument that would prove it, would 
prove also, that God is not omnipotent. Though 
the soul is not at liberty to perceive the truth of a 
proposition, and still believe it not true, it is at 
liberty to withdraw from the consideration of the 
truth altogether, and direct its attention to other 
contemplations. There is this difference, however, 
between our perceptions and feelings that we may 
dismiss the former immediately, while the latter 
frequently continue to affect us, after the agency 
by which they were first excited has ceased to act. 
A painful sensation cannot be removed, if it arise 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 253 

from an injury received in any part of the body, 
until the part affected be healed ; but this con- 
tinued sensation, though felt by the soul, is never 
cherished by it. The soul never embraces it, never 
identifies it with its own existence. It keeps it as far 
removed from it as possible, and would extinguish 
it altogether if it were able. It is obvious, then, 
that the continuation of this disagreeable sensation 
owes no part of its existence to the will, that it 
arises solely from the original, sensible agency by 
which it was produced, that the soul was passive 
with regard to its original production, and is still 
passive with regard to its continuation, and conse- 
quently that it never ceases to be, what it origi- 
nally was, a simple sensation. Such a feeling is 
properly what we call a sensation, because it is 
produced by sensible means, and sensible causes 
acting upon the soul, which is always passive with 
regard to its sensations. It is different, however, 
when the soul, instead of wishing to banish a sen- 
sation, cherishes, indulges, and loves to retain it. 
In this case, the continuation of its existence must 
not be traced to sensible agency, but to an act of 
the soul itself. Here the soul is not, as in the for- 
mer case, passive, and merely yielding to sensa- 
tions which it cannot resist ; but it is in every re- 
spect, active, and it is to its activity, to its embrac- 
ing, cherishing, and retaining the sensation, that 
we must trace its continuance. Such continued 



254 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

sensations as these lose their character of sensa- 
tions, as they are not solely caused by sensible 
ncy, but are properly termed passions, because 
they are produced by the souls being moved by 
the original sensations which led to their produc- 
tion, by its coming forward, as it were, to embrace 
them, acknowledging that they are pleasing and 
agreable to it, cherishing and retaining them, and 
thus perpetuating their existence by its own free 
will and pleasure. It is obvious that the soul is 
accessary to these kind of feelings, because they 
would perish of themselves if it remained dormant, 
and consequently that they should be distinguished 
from those feelings in which the soul has no part, 
which it pronounces to be foreign to its nature, 
which press upon it without its consent, which are 
produced by external agency, and which would 
immediately perish if their existence depended 
upon any voluntary act of its own. These latter 
feelings are, in the strictest sense of the term, sen- 
sations, because they are the effect of sensible 
agency, the soul having no share in them whatever; 
but the former feelings owe their existence to the 
soul itself, or if the senses have a share in their pro- 
duction, it must at least be allowed that the soul 
has a share in them also, and consequently that 
feelings emanating from the agency of the spiritual 
and material parts of our nature, must be clearly 
rlistinct from those in which the spiritual part is 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 255 

entirely passive. That they are so is evident, not 
only for the reasons which I have just assigned, 
but also because we feel them to be different in 
their nature and character. Nothing can be more 
different from the feelings of which a lover is con- 
scious, than those which he h'rst experienced when 
he beheld the object of -his affections. The feel- 
ings in both instances, it is true, are of an agree- 
able nature, but the first impressions, were mere 
sensations, and, as such, he felt them as something 
that formed no part of his existence ; something 
that affected him, at the moment, and of which 
he expected to be unconscious soon after. But our 
emotions and passions are our very selves. The 
soul is so completely engrossed by them, that it 
has no other consciousness at the time, whereas it 
may feel different sensations, at the same moment, 
all of which it feels to be different from each other, 
and from itself; but it so completely identifies 
itself with its passions, that when any of them 
takes complete possession of it, it seems to exist in 
this passion alone, and to have no other existence. 
At such a moment the soul may be pronounced a 
modification of passion. It is true, a man's breast 
may be swayed by different passions at the same 
moment, and fluctuate between them, uncertain 
which to abandon himself to, but when he once 
determines, he resigns himself entirely to the pas- 
sion that happens to prevail. 



266 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

React (liiVoront Passions more or less inflame, 
As strong or weak the organs of the frame, 
And hence one master-passion in the breast, 
Like Aaron's serpent, swallows up the rest. 

It is different with our sensations ; — we never fluc- 
tuate between them for an instant, because we 
never intend to identify ourselves with them at all. 
They are not creations of our own : we look upon 
them as something external, — something which we 
feel at the moment, whether willingly or not ; but 
in all cases we distinguish between the power that 
feels, and the thing felt, that is, between ourselves 
and our sensations ; whereas we identify ourselves 
so completely with our passions, that we do not 
feel them as mere impressions made upon the soul, 
as something external which presses upon us, but 
which are not ourselves. On the contrary, passion 
pervades the entire soul, so that the soul and the 
passion seem to have but one existence. The soul, 
then, is passive with regard to its sensations, and, 
consequently, they may be pleasant or painful, 
whether the soul wills it or not. It is obvious, at 
the same time, that if they be painful, the soul 
can never will their continuance ; and therefore, 
if they continue, they must always remain sensa- 
tions, that is, impressions made upon the soul, 
against its own consent, by external agency. As 
all painful feelings, then, must be sensations, it is 
obvious that our emotions and passions must be 



THE SOURCE OP TRAGIC PLEASURE. 257 

all, without exception, of_a pleasing character. 
That we may, at no time, mistake sensations for 
emotions, it will be necessary to bear in mind, that 
sensations arise from sensible agency, acting upon 
the soul, and that emotions and passions arise 
from an act of the soul itself, by which it not 
merely suffers the impressions made upon it, but 
actually embraces and retains them, as affections 
congenial to its own nature. 

If an impression made upon the soul without 
its own consent, constituted an emotion, we could 
not possibly distinguish between emotions and 
sensations ; for a sensation, in the most rigid and 
metaphysical acceptation of the term, is an im- 
pression made from without, independently of any 
act, or concurrence of the soul. Besides, if such 
impressions were emotions, we should experience 
emotions every moment of our lives, as we are 
every moment acted upon by external influences. 
The term emotion, therefore, expresses not an im- 
pression made upon the senses, but an act of the 
soul, by w r hich it embraces the gratifications which 
the senses afford. While the soul, or will, refuses 
to yield to the solicitations of the senses, or to 
partake in the enjoyments which they promise, 
there can be neither emotion nor passion, because 
the soul stands cool, firm, and collected in its 
place, and asserts its sovereignty over the inferior 
part of its nature. 

s 



258 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

To place this doctrine in a clearer light, let us 
try the experiment on a pleasing and on a dis- 
agreeable object. We shall suppose the first to be 
a beautiful woman, to whom we shall introduce 
three gentlemen. It is obvious that each must be 
pleased with her, because beauty is universally 
pleasing. This pleasure, however, is merely an 
agreeable sensation, and it will remain so, till the 
soul, or will, begins to act, — till it falls in love 
with the sensation, feels an unwillingness to resign 
it, and yields to this unwillingness. A lover is 
virtually as much in love with his passion, as 
with the object of his affection ; for it is his attach- 
ment to this passion that makes him continue to 
be in love. If he could once prevail upon him- 
self to abandon it, he would care nothing for 
the person by whom it was excited. Let us suppose 
then, the effect of the impression made upon these 
three individuals by this beautiful woman to be as 
follows. One continues to look upon, and to think 
of her when absent, with a degree of pleasure 
which is always the same, or at least in which he 
can perceive no sensible change. Another views 
her, and thinks of her with increasing pleasure ; 
and instead of checking this pleasure, he seeks to 
cherish and retain it. The third feels also, a dis- 
position to an increasing pleasure in her society, 
but he does not surfer this pleasure to lay the least 
restraint on the freedom of his will ; or, to speak 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 259 

perhaps more philosophically, whenever he consults 
his will, and asks it, whether this pleasure might not 
be suffered to go farther, the will instantly says no, 
and extinguishes, in its bud, the emotion which would 
immediately follow, if the will had said yes. It is 
obvious, then, that the last man escapes all the 
emotions and passions that would unavoidably 
follow, if the will once consented, and that, ac- 
cordingly, the impressions she makes upon him, 
are entirely confined to those feelings and impres- 
sions, which belong to the sensitive part of his 
nature, and over which the will can exercise no 
possible controul. When I perceive a serpent, I 
instantaneously feel a painful sensation, which no 
power of the will can prevent, in the first instance. 
This, however, is a mere affection of the senses, 
and not of the will ; for the will, so far from yield- 
ing to it, endeavours to get rid of it as quick as 
possible. He, therefore, who subjects his feelings 
to the dominion of the will, is incapable of any 
passion arising from his acquaintance with the 
female in question, because the will suppresses all 
the incipient emotions which solicit its acqui- 
escence. Neither can he, who continues to look 
upon, and to think of her with a degree of pleasure 
which is always the same, feel the least emotion, 
either in or out of her presence ; for that pleasure 
which is subject to no fluctuation, is not the effect 
of emotion, or passion, but a mere agreeable 

s2 



260 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

sensation. All emotions and passions are subject 
to fluctuation, and they rise or fall, in proportion 
as the will yields to, or opposes their restless crav- 
ings, and unsatisfied appetites. While the will 
chooses to curb their rebellious solicitations, they 
can never rise above a sensitive nature. Even in 
this state, it is true, they may be very strong, and 
very importunate ; but however strong they may 
be, they continue to be sensations, till they succeed 
in seducing the will. The moment the will gives 
consent, they lose the character of sensations, and 
become emotions or passions, in proportion as 
the will consents to them. The objects of emo- 
tions have seldom any thing criminal in their nature, 
and hence it is, that the will yields to them with- 
out the least hesitation, at the first impulse. A 
passion is not always so pure, though it is, at all 
times, more powerful ; for not only the will yields 
to the original sensations, but yields to them so 
implicitly, that it co-operates with them in attain- 
ing the enjoyment of their desires. This co-ope- 
ration sets them in a flame, which is occasionally 
checked by a return of the will to some sense of 
its duty. Having once yielded, however, the senses, 
in general, prove too powerful for it, and seldom fail 
in succeeding to drag it back again to an acquies- 
cence with their excitements. Again, the will per- 
ceives the slavery to which it has subjected itself, 
and, if originally imbued with a strong sense of vir- 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 261 

tue, invariably attempts to recover its lost ascen- 
dency over the inferior part of its nature. Hence, a 
perpetual fluctuation takes place in all our passions, 
which are seldom felt in our emotions, because, 
having nothing criminal in view, the will yields to 
them without hesitation, and indulges in the more 
moderate, but more virtuous gratifications which 
their proper objects afford. Thus, when we perceive 
a distressed object, we instantly feel an emotion 
of pity, because there being nothing criminal in 
yielding to it, the will assents to the emotion at 
once. 

This proves, that the will, in its original nature, 
is virtuously inclined, for it yields, without hesita- 
tion, to every pleasure of a virtuous nature ; but 
opposes, more or less, every gratification which 
tends to withdraw it from the paths of rectitude. 
If, therefore, our passions be subject to a perpetual 
fluctuation, it is obvious that he who always looks 
upon this beautiful female with the same degree 
of pleasure, has never yielded to a passion for her. 
Here, then, we have a pleasing object, a beautiful 
female, who pleases two men, and yet we find they 
can both look upon this pleasing object without 
the least passion. The one is simply pleased, but 
as he seeks for no higher pleasure, the wil is not 
solicited to pursue higher gratifications ; the other 
is equally pleased, but he feels his pleasure in- 
creasing, and a disposition to yield to this increas- 



262 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

ing pleasure, yet he feels no passion, because the 
will refuses to consent. The most beautiful object, 
then, can excite no passion without the consent of 
the will. The third alone becomes the slave of 
passion, because the will yields to, and co-operates 
with, the eagerness and ardour of his desires. 

Without the consent of the will, there can, 
therefore, be no passion. Hence, in all our passions, 
the soul suffers itself to be led captive, and co- 
operates with the senses in seeking to enjoy the 
object of their desires. This slavery of the soul 
is properly called passion, from passio, suffering, 
because the soul, or will, suffers itself to be led 
captive. It is evident, however, it would not do 
so, if it were not pleased with its captivity, for it 
frequently throws off the magic yoke of the senses, 
and asserts its native dominion over them, even 
when they afford the highest enjoyment. Sensa- 
tion and passion, therefore, differ in this, that the 
former has no object in view, no other gratification 
to seek, than the sensation of the moment, while 
the latter, not content with this immediate gratifi- 
cation, seeks for a higher pleasure in the enjoy- 
ment of its object. When we feel a pleasing 
sensation, we enjoy it without attending to the 
cause by which it is produced. But when this 
sensation is converted into a passion, it has its eye 
always fixed on the attainment of the object by 
which it is excited. A miser not only feels a plea- 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 263 

sure, like all other men, in the possession of wealth, 
but he has also his mind invariably fixed upon the 
ideas of its accumulation. The first pleasure is a 
simple sensation, produced by an immediate, sen- 
sible cause ; namely, the wealth he possesses ; but 
the second pleasure is a passion which can be 
traced to no immediate, sensible cause whatever, 
and arises solely from the mind itself ; for the idea of 
accumulating wealth, by which it is produced, is 
not a thing that has its existence without us. So 
far from being any thing in nature, it is not even 
the quality of any thing in nature, except of the 
mind itself. All ideas, it is true, are properties of 
the mind ; but so far as regards their origin, they 
are sensible or abstract ideas, that is, ideas produced 
by sensible causes, or ideas produced again by these 
sensible ideas. There is not a passion that has 
ever kindled in the human frame but what has 
originated from this last tribe of ideas. In the 
instance before us, it is obvious, that the pleasure 
arising from the actual possession of wealth, is a 
feeling produced by a natural, sensible cause; 
namely, the wealth possessed ; and consequently 
this feeling is properly a sensation ; and it is equally 
obvious, that the pleasure arising from the idea of 
increasing this wealth cannot be attributed to the 
wealth itself, in any stage of its increase, for if, 
from any circumstance whatever, a miser disco- 
vers the actual impossibility of adding another 



264 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

shilling to his hoard, all the pleasure he had hither- 
to enjoyed is at an end, a proof, that the pleasure 
arose, not from the wealth he possessed, but from 
a pure abstract idea of the mind: it arose not 
from accumulated wealth, for no fixed accumula- 
tion can satisfy a miser, or put an end to the pas- 
sion ; but it arose altogether from the idea of add- 
ing new heaps to what he possessed already. These 
new heaps, however, have as yet no existence, ex- 
cept in the mind of the miser ; and, consequently, 
the idea which they create, and the pleasure which 
they impart, can be traced to the operations of the 
mind alone. 

If we examine all the other passions, this theory 
will be found invariably true. The pleasure which 
a lover feels in gazing on his mistress, is a simple 
sensation of which his mistress is the cause ; but 
the still greater pleasure he anticipates from being 
united to her, and the enjoyments that are to suc- 
ceed this union, arises entirely from the creations 
of his own mind, and can be traced to no immediate 
sensible cause. His union with her cannot be con- 
sidered the cause of this pleasure, for this would 
be to make the effect precede the cause, as his 
union with her does not as yet exist ; and what has 
no actual existence can exist only in the mind. The 
enjoyments that follow this union cannot be the 
cause, for these enjoyments have no more actual 
existence than the union. The second pleasure, 



THE SOURCE OP TRAGIC PLEASURE. 265 

then, can be traced to no cause whatever, but the 
operations and creations of an ardent and glowing 
imagination; and it is this pleasure that properly 
constitutes the passion of love. 

These observations apply to all passions what- 
ever, and point out a distinction between emotions 
and passions which has never been made by any 
writer. Hence it is, that the theory of sensations, 
emotions, and passions, are so confused and mysti- 
fied by ethic writers. The distinction, however, 
having been once made, it is easy to perceive, that 
as all passions originate from the mind, all passions 
must necessarily be pleasing to it, for if they were 
not so, the mind would find it impossible to perpe- 
tuate their existence. Every passion, then, is pleas- 
ing to him by whom it is felt. The lover would 
not remain long in love if the enjoyments which 
he anticipates gave him no pleasure; nor would 
the miser continue to be swayed by avarice, if he 
felt no delight in it. The same may be said of all 
our passions, without exception, even the most 
despicable of them. Hatred is pleasing to him by 
whom it is felt, for if it were not, he neither could, 
nor would indulge in it. If he found no pleasure 
in hating a person, he would neither begin to hate 
him, nor continue to do so, after he had begun. It 
is the same with malignity. If a malignant per- 
son found greater pleasure in benevolence than in 



265 -PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

malignity, he could not possibly be malignant, be- 
cause the mind is always turning" to that which is 
most pleasing to it, and keeping at a distance, 
or endeavouring to forget, what is disagreeable to 
it. If envy, then, were disagreeable, it could find 
no habitation in the mind of the person by whom it 
is cherished. 

But it will be said, that the passions of fear and 
despair, prove, contrary to what I have advanced, 
that some passions are not pleasing to us, as no 
man would cherish and retain the impressions of 
fear and despair, if he could divest himself of them. 
Let us examine this objection. 

I have already shewn, that passion arises from 
pure mental acts, or creations of the mind, which 
it seeks to realize, but which it knows has no pre- 
sent existence. The lover knows that the antici- 
pated pleasure which produces his passion has not 
as yet come into existence, but the hope that they 
may, serves to give energy and ardour to his flame. 
If, however, he should begin to despair of success, 
he has still some little spark of hope remaining, 
and his attachment to the possible pleasure which 
this hope anticipates, makes him cling to it to the 
last. Small as this spark may be, it affords him 
greater pleasure than any other earthly enjoyment, 
so that it is this pleasure that attaches him to despair. 
Let him only succeed in disregarding what this de- 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 267 

lusive hope promises him, and there is an end to 
his despair: like an enchanted castle, it dissolves 
into airy nothing. 

This argument, however, may be thought not to 
apply, where despair admits of no hope whatever, 
as where the beloved object is carried away by an 
untimely death. In such a case, I admit there is 
no hope, but neither is there any despair, for de- 
spair, always supposes the existence of something 
to be despaired of. Here, however, the object de- 
spaired of is no more. If any passion, then, sur- 
vives despair, it must be grief. The lover now be- 
comes attached to the memory of his fair one, and 
this memory is dearer to him, and consequently 
gives him greater pleasure, than any enjoyment by 
which it can be displaced. If he could prevail on 
himself to think lightly of her memory, his grief 
would, as in the former case, pass away like a vision 
of the night. Despair not only implies something 
to be despaired of, but also a something to which 
we are strongly attached ; for no man can be said 
to despair of a thing which gives him no concern ; 
and with regard to which he is perfectly indifferent ; 
for whether despair be an emotion, or passion, it 
cannot be excited by the influence of an indifferent 
object ; and if it be neither an emotion nor passion, 
any observation relative to it can form no objection 
to my theory, as it applies to emotions and pas- 
sions alone. Despair, then, considered as a passion, 



268 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

must be caused by something to which we are 
strongly attached, and this attachment is dearer to 
us, which is saying-, in other words, that it gives us 
greater pleasure, than any other enjoyment by 
which it can be displaced. 

As to fear, it is erroneously considered a passion. 
There is no passion whatever which has not hope 
and fear as its inseparable attendants, namely, the 
hope of enjoying, and the fear of losing theenjoyment 
of the pleasure by which the passion is excited. 
Fear, then, is always the accompaniment of a pas- 
sion, but never a passion itself, for whenever it is not 
the accompaniment of a passion, such as the fear 
produced by the presence of some dangerous object, 
a tiger, or a lion, it is a pure and unmixed sen- 
sation, as all impressions made upon the senses by 
external objects, or circumstances, are without ex- 
ception. Fear, it is true, is frequently produced 
by imaginary causes, but this can never happen 
but when these causes appear to be real, and then, 
consequently, they act upon us as the realities of 
life. A painted tiger will terrify if it be mistaken 
for a real one. It is different in passion, for though, 
like fear, it is the offspring of the imagination, yet 
we know, that the gratification which it seeks after, 
and by which it is produced, has, during the con- 
tinuance of the passion, no real existence. This 
is so true, that the moment the gratification is 
realized, the passion ceases, and dwindles into a 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 269 

mere sensation. When the lover enjoys his mis- 
tress, his passion is at an end, because imagina- 
tion has nothing to add to the pleasurable sensa- 
tions which he feels at the moment. He anticipates 
no higher bliss, because he now actually enjoys all 
that he had anticipated, and feeling himself inca- 
pable of higher enjoyment, imagination can no 
longer delude him with promises of higher bliss. 
The feelings of the moment, then, are pure and 
unmixed sensations, produced by the actual object 
which he enjoys, so that when passion is gratified, 
it terminates in sensation. 

It may seem strange to maintain, that avarice 
and malice are pleasing passions ; but the asser- 
tion is not more strange than it is true ; avarice 
and malice are pleasing to those by whom they are 
felt, and with regard to others, they have no exist- 
ence. The passion of avarice, for instance, can 
never be felt by a man of a generous and liberal 
disposition. If, therefore, it should be argued, that 
avarice is a passion in which he should find no 
pleasure, it may also be replied, that it is a passion 
which he can never feel. If all men, consequently, 
were generous and liberal, the passion of avarice 
would not be known even by name, and so far 
from producing pleasure, or pain, we could not 
form an abstract idea of its existence. The mo- 
ment, therefore, we begin to feel the passion of 
avarice, that moment also we begin to be pleased 



270 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

with it, because he to whom it is not pleasing, can 
never feel it at all. From the moment the mind 
begins to dwell on the happiness of hoarding up 
wealth, we are seized with the passion of avarice ; 
but antecedent to the pleasure resulting from this 
idea, the passion of avarice can have no existence. 
What I have said of avarice and its pleasures, 
is applicable to the basest and most malignant 
passions of our nature, as envy, malice, sloth, 
gluttony, misanthropy, &c. They are all pleasing 
to those by whom they are cherished and indulged, 
and to whose dispositions they are natural ; but 
in those to whose natures they are repugnant, they 
excite no passion whatever. This is so certain, 
that if a man whose aversion for any passion was 
so great, that he could not even endure a person 
whom he saw subject to its dominion, should, by 
any co-operation of circumstances, yield to the 
same passion himself, he would become as attached 
to it as the man whom it formerly rendered the 
object of his disgust. There is no alternative, 
then, between resisting a passion, and becoming 
attached to it ; and this attachment is a proof that 
we are pleased with it at the same time. The 
lover acknowledges that he is a prey to the most 
agonizing and heart-rending torments ; and, in 
some instances, he terminates his existence, to put 
an end to his sufferings. Yet, nothing can be more 
certain, than that the more desperately we are in 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 271 

love, the more unwilling do we feel to tear our- 
selves from its grasp. We could not feel this 
unwillingness, however, without being pleased with 
the passion, notwithstanding all its torments, for 
no man is unwilling to part with what gives him 
no pleasure. We find pleasure, then, in the most 
tormenting passions, when once we suffer them to 
take possession of our heart. While the will repels 
their influence, and yields not to their dominion, 
they afford us no pleasure, and accordingly we 
find many who derive no pleasure from Tragic 
representations, such as stoics, who repel the in 
fluence of all sensations ; philosophers, who view 
every thing through the medium of the under- 
standing; misers, and all others who are devoured 
up by one predominant passion, which extinguishes 
all the rest. 

In maintaining that avarice, malice, &c. excite 
no emotions in those to whose natures they are re- 
pugnant, I mean, merely, that they excite none of 
an avaricious or malicious nature. That they ex- 
cite other passions in us, I am willing to admit, 
but these, like all our passions, are of a pleasing 
character. When I behold a malicious man plot- 
ting how he may injure another, I am immediately 
fired with indignation against him. The passion 
which I feel, though it has nothing malicious in it, 
is still the effect of malice, as it is entirely caused 
by the malicious designs of which I become a 



'27*2 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

spectator. This passion, however, is pleasing to 
me, for I am pleased with myself in yielding to a 
glow of honest indignation, and I should despise 
myself if I did not feel it. I could not feel it, 
however, if it were not pleasing and agreeable to 
my nature, for a malicious person, placed in my 
situation, could no more feel as I feel, than a tiger 
can like a lamb. Such a person finds a pleasure, 
not in opposing, but in co-operating with the designs 
of malice ; and consequently he can never feel that 
glow of indignation which kindles in the breast 
of an honest man, the moment he perceives them. 
It is so difficult, however, to make man resign 
any opinion or belief which he has been always 
accustomed to entertain, that he will frequently 
cling to it after being stripped of every argument 
which he can urge in its defence, after being- 
obliged to admit every proposition and deduction 
that has been brought forward to disprove it. I 
doubt not, therefore, but the doctrine which makes 
all emotions and passions pleasing to the soul, 
and admits no passion or emotion whatever to be 
disagreeable to it, will, notwithstanding the ar- 
guments by which I have supported it, appear 
to many readers extravagant and visionary. At 
the same time, it surely cannot be thought extra- 
vagant in me to ask why they think so. If they 
can assign any reason which I cannot disprove, or 
if they can disprove the arguments by which I 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 273 

have endeavoured to support it, I shall acknowledge 
myself in error, but to be condemned without reason 
is not to be condemned at all, for such a condem- 
nation only exculpates the criminal and criminates 
the judge. If my theory be erroneous, I should feel 
the most unfeigned pleasure in seeing it refuted, as 
the discovery of truth is the only object at which I 
aim, and at which all men should aim ; for if know- 
ledge be power, error must necessarily be weak- 
ness ; but as I believe it cannot be refuted, I wish 
to avoid as much as possible, provoking any an- 
swer. I shall therefore, state and reply to the 
only objections which, in my opinion can be made 
to it. These objections are two. The first that 
even admitting every passion to possess more or less 
of pleasure, yet there is a clear distinction between 
those passions which are entirely pleasing, and those 
which are mixed with a great portion of pain, and 
that consequently the latter should he termed pain- 
ful, or disagreeable passions, and not classed with 
the former. To this objection I reply by admit- 
ting, very readily, there is a difference between 
unqualified pleasure and that which is mixed with 
pain, but there is also a difference betwixt snow and 
paper, and yet both are white, for no man will 
maintain that paper is not white, simply because it 
is not as white as snow. It is then as absurd to 
maintain that passions mixed with painful feelings 
ought to be called painful or disagreeable passions, 

T 



27 1 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

as to maintain that a white colour mixed with 
any of the darker shades, ought to be called not a 
white but a dark colour. Every thing is called 
white in which the white colour predominates, but 
when any other predominates, it loses the name of 
white and takes that of the predominating colour. 
By the same rule, all passions should be called 
pleasing, however mixed with pain, while pleasure 
predominates, and I have already shewn that plea- 
sure predominates in them all. In fact, all pas 
sions without exception must be painful, if a mix- 
ture of pain be sufficient to render them so, for 
there is no passion exempt from it, and those pas- 
sions which afford the highest raptures are those 
which produce the most acute and agonizing pains. 
Love is the strongest of all the passions : 

Love, strong as death, the poet led 
To the pale nations of the dead, 

and therefore it is the most delightful. Its plea- 
sures rise to that high rapture and ecstacy which no 
other passion can impart, and yet what are all human 
pains compared to those of the lover. When Or- 
pheus visited the pale nations of the dead in search 
of his fair one, (whether he visited them or not, is 
a matter of indifference, for we know it is only 
what a lover would not hesitate to do,) he knew the 
dangers to which he was exposing himself, and 
consequently he was not ignorant of the pains 
which he was likely to endure. Why then expose 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 275 

himself to them if the pleasure of regaining his 
Eurydice was not greater than all the pains 
which hell was able to inflict? Some shallow rea- 
soners and frigid philosophers inform us, and I have 
never seen the assertion disputed, that intense pain 
is more painful than intense pleasure is pleasing, 
but the assertion is disproved by constant expe- 
rience. A school-boy will run after his favourite 
pleasure though he is certain he can only enjoy it 
at the expense of a flogging ; the lover smiles at 
the perils which oppose his wishes, and braves even 
death itself in all its horrifying and subduing as- 
pects, rather than evade the grim monster by re- 
signing his hopes, and abandoning his mistress. 
Pain, then, cannot terrify us in the same degree that 
pleasure attracts us, for we force our way through 
all the perils to which our passion exposes us, soon- 
er than forfeit or abandon the object of our desires. 
The passions which communicate this strong and 
rapturous pleasure, are those which are numbered 
among the pleasing and agreeable passions, but, as 
I have just shewn, their attendant pains are infi- 
nitely greater than those which accompany pas- 
sions that impart but a slight degree of pleasure. 
In fact, the puns which accompany the strong or 
rapturous passions are so intense that they fre- 
quently lead either to death or to madness. Or- 
pheus, who braved the pains of hell itself in pursuit 
of bis Eurydice, enjoyed, no doubt, a pleasure in 

t 2 



27f> PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

regaining her, which neither pencil can paint, nor 
language can describe; but did not the pain which 
he felt in losi?ig her surpass any affliction that can 
result from what are called the disagreeable or 
painful passions ? 

Now under hanging mountains 

Beside the falls of fountains, 

Or where Hebrus wanders, 

Rolling in meanders, 
All alone, 

Unheard, unknown, 

He makes his moan, 

And calls her ghost 

For ever, ever, ever lost. 

Now with furies surrounded, 

Despairing, confounded, 

He trembles, he glows 

Amidst Rhodope's snows. 
See, wild as the wind o'er the desert he flies ! 
Hark, Haemus resounds with the Bacchanal's cries. 

Ah see he dies ! 

This picture of the distresses and agonies of love 
are not a mere fiction of imagination so far as re- 
gards its effects, though it may be as regards Or- 
pheus, for we have examples every day before our 
eyes of love terminating in death or madness. Yet 
amidst these afflictions, pleasure is predominant. 
Orpheus glows even when he trembles, a circum- 
stance which is finely marked by the poet. It may, 
therefore, be safely laid down as a rule, that in 



THE SOURCE OP TRAGIC PLEASURE. 277 

proportion as oar passions and their accompanying 
pleasures are intense, in the same proportion, and 
neither more nor less, are the pains which result 
from not being permitted to enjoy them. It is idle 
then to talk of passions unaccompanied by pain, 
for no instance can be produced of a man who felt 
no pain in being debarred from the enjoyment of 
the object by which his passion was produced. 
Such a passion has no existence, and he who pre- 
tends to it is a hypocrite. The pains attendant on 
our passions can never be removed until the pas- 
sion itself be extinguished. The means of extin- 
guishing passion are gratification or repulsion. 
The moment the passion is gratified it ceases, no 
matter what the passion may be. The passions of 
envy, malice, hatred, &c. are as completely extin- 
guished by gratification as those of love and friend- 
ship. The moment a person obtains all the satis- 
faction he wishes for, he ceases to hate. Passion 
is also destroyed by repulsion, or a strong deter- 
mination of mind not to yield to the tyranny 
which it attempts to exercise over us ; but while we 
do yield, passion is a pleasure which no intensity 
of pain can induce us to resign. The intensity of 
the pains which accompany passion can never rise 
so high as the intensity of the pleasure that in- 
duces us to endure them. Pleasure and pain ac- 
company all passions ; and as, in no passion can 



278 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

they be extinguished without the extinction of the 
passion itself, neither is there any passion, in which 
the pleasure anticipated does not exceed the pain 
virtually and immediately felt. 

The other objection which I anticipate by reply- 
ing to it here, is, that though all passions should 
even be allowed to be pleasing to those by whom 
they are felt, yet the disagreeable passions as ha- 
tred, malice, avarice, &c. are disgusting to the rest 
of mankind. The miser it will be said finds plea- 
sure in amassing wealth, but the miser and his 
passion are equally detestable in the eye of every 
liberal mind, avarice, therefore, is a disagreeable or 
painful passion. 

This objection is more specious than the former 
but the argument on which it rests is a mere phan- 
tom. The passion of avarice is a mere feeling in 
the mind which it is unwilling to resign, but whe- 
ther unwilling or not, it can create neither pleasure 
nor pain in him by whom it is not felt. How can 
a feeling that has no existence create pain ? and the 
feeling which constitutes avarice has no existence 
except in the breast of the miser. Its pleasures 
and pains are, therefore, confined to the miser 
alone, and can produce no emotion in him by whom 
the passion is not felt. I admit, we abhor the miser 
and his passion ; but this feeling of abhorrence is 
not avarice itself, but a detestation of it. If this 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 279 

feeling of abhorrence be painful to us, why attri- 
bute the pain to any other cause than that which 
produces it, namely, a feeling of abhorrence ? This 
feeling surely is not avarice, and consequently the 
pain which results from it cannot be traced to 
avarice, or to any thing but that simple feeling of 
abhorrence by which it is produced. 



280 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 



CHAP. X. 

The true Source of the Pleasures derived from Tragic 
Representations deduced from the two preceding Chap- 
ters, The secret of giving Dramatic interest to Tra- 
gedies intended for Representation. 

It appears, from every view which we can 
take of our emotions and passions, for I believe I 
have taken the most general view of them which 
can be taken, that they are all pleasing to the soul, 
or, in other words, that the pleasure, arising from 
this source, is not confined to certain emotions, or 
to certain passions, as is generally imagined, but 
that it is the effect of all emotions and passions 
whatever. It appears also, that all strong sensa- 
tions are pleasing to us except in three in- 
stances, and that the sensations produced by scenes 
of tragic distress do not come within the limits of 
these three exceptions. Whatever, then, creates 
either of these affections within us, produces plea- 
sure, and if the scenes exhibited in the represen- 
tation of tragic distress, be calculated to excite 
them, pleasure must be the necessary consequence 
of witnessing such scenes. At the same time, it 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 281 

must be very obvious, that the object of every 
scene, of every situation, in a word, of every thing 
presented to us on the stage, is not to teach us 
something of which we were already ignorant, but 
to excite such a strong feeling within us, as the 
contriver of it imagined it was calculated to excite. 
He knows, that if he succeed in producing this 
feeling, it will necessarily please, though he does 
not reflect, at the same time, that any other strong 
feeling would please as well, provided it was in 
harmony with those which preceded and followed 
it. If then, we are so constituted by nature, as 
to derive pleasure from every species of agency 
that excites strong impressions within us, whether 
they be sensations, emotions, or passions, except 
as before excepted, and if Tragic representations 
be a species of agency fitted to excite such impres- 
sions, and if the impressions which it makes do 
not come within the limits of the three exceptions 
or instances in which strong sensations fail of im- 
parting pleasure, it follows, that the pleasures de- 
rived from Tragic representations, arise from their 
being a species of agency fitted to produce strong 
sensations, emotions, and passions, within us, and 
from our being so constituted by nature as to find 
pleasure in every affection of the mind that assumes 
a strong and energetic character. Let us now see 
of what use this knowledge can be to the tragic 
poet. 



282 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

In the first place, if a knowledge of the cause 
from which Tragic pleasure arises, were sufficient 
to enable him to invent his plot, create his images, 
dispose of his situations and characters, in such a 
manner as to be certain of always producing plea- 
sure, it is very obvious, that all tragedies would 
prove successful, whether produced by a writer of 
little talent, or a writer of genius. If this were 
the case, I believe all my readers would wish, that 
the source of Tragic pleasure had never been dis- 
covered, as it would approximate the most stupid 
writer of tragedies to Shakspeare and Corneille. 
The one would please as well as the other ; and 
while the audience were pleased, they would not 
refuse the stupid author of their pleasure a por- 
tion of that merit which belongs only to genius. 
An acquaintance, however, with the cause of Tragic 
pleasure, will still leave the writer of genius, and the 
dunce, as far removed from each other as ever, for 
reasons which will immediately appear. I must first, 
however, answer an objection which may probably 
be made to the propriety of tracing a cause, which, 
when known, is of no advantage to the tragic poet, 
and which, consequently, is rather curious than 
useful. In the first place, though a knowledge of 
the cause which produces Tragic pleasure will not 
enable the writer of tardy intellect to approach 
nearer to the rapid strides of genius than he can 
at present, yet it does not follow that it can be of 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 283 

no service to him, because it may enable both him 
and the writer of genius to attain to a higher de- 
gree of excellence than they otherwise could have 
attained. But granting it, for a moment, to be 
entirely a question, the resolution of which tends 
only to gratify curiosity, is there not still some- 
thing gained by becoming acquainted with it? 
Our ignorance of the cause of any effect, creates 
a certain wish of becoming acquainted with it, 
and a consequent anxiety until the wish be grati- 
fied. Is there not something gained by removing 
this anxiety, and gratifying the curiosity by which 
it is excited ? This gratification produces pleasure, 
and if pleasure be of no use, why go to the theatre 
at all ? why read the tragedies of Shakspeare or 
Corneille ? The only advantage that can be de- 
rived from going to the theatre is the pleasure 
which it imparts. Indeed, the only advantage 
that can be derived from riches, power, knowledge, 
prowess, or from any other source whatever, con- 
sists in the pleasure which it imparts, or the pains 
which it enables us to avoid. As pleasure, or happi- 
ness, then, is the ultimate object of all our pursuits, 
it is equally desirable, and equally useful, from 
whatever source it arises. 

A knowledge, however, of the source of the 
pleasures derived from Tragic representations, will 
serve a higher purpose than that of gratifying 
curiosity alone; for he who knows that the sensa- 



284 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

tions which his characters and situatious shall 
excite in the mind of the audience will be pleas- 
ing in proportion as they are strong and affecting, 
will necessarily avoid, as much as possible, the 
error of those who more frequently appeal to the 
understanding than to the sympathies of men. It is 
said that Moliere read his plays to his old servant, 
Laforet, to see what impression they would make 
upon her, and that he generally trusted to the re- 
sult of this experiment. It cannot be supposed, 
at the same time, that he had a high regard for 
her understanding, and consequently he considered 
feeling alone, to be the proper touchstone of dra- 
matic criticism. It would be erroneous, however, 
to suppose, that he who appeals incessantly to the 
feelings, and who writes under a conviction that it 
is only by producing strong sensations, emotions, 
and passions, that he can succeed in communicat- 
ingTragic pleasure; it would be erroneous, I say, to 
suppose, that such a writer must necessarily please, 
because the sentiments which he puts into the 
mouths of his characters, and the situations in 
which he places them, may not always excite those 
feelings which he intends them to excite. It may 
be said, that, according to my theory, it matters 
little what feeling they excite, provided it be a 
strong one. I admit it ; but it seldom happens that 
any situation or sentiment will produce a strong 
sensation, which is out of its place, and which 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 285 

does not harmonize with what precedes, and also 
with what follows, if we be antecedently acquaint- 
ed with it. Hence it follows, that the situation 
which produces the most powerful impression in 
one tragedy, might, if copied, produce no sensa- 
tion at all in another; for if we perceived that it 
did not naturally arise from the preceding and 
harmonize with the subsequent train of events, 
this perception would strip it, in a very great de- 
gree, of the power which it possessed over the mind, 
in the tragedy from which it was copied. It is in 
the perception of this harmony, that the writer of 
genius triumphs over inferior intellects, nor is it 
possible to point out any means by which the lat- 
ter can ever approach him. The reason is obvious : 
the eye of genius penetrates, at a glance, the whole 
structure which it has erected : — it perceives not 
only the entire of the design which it aims to ac- 
complish, but it perceives also the relation which 
each individual member, circumstance, image, 
situation, sentiment, particular trait of character, 
and mode of action, in which this particular 
trait is apt to exert itself, bears to the general 
design. If, therefore, in the impetuosity of its 
rapid career, it should create any image, express 
any sentiment, invent any situation, or trait of 
character, which, though just in itself, has no re- 
lation to the whole assemblage of parts, it in- 
stantly detects the inappropriateness of its own 



k JS6 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

creation : it perceives that though the sentiment 
which it expresses is true, it is still a sentiment 
which has no accordance with the purpose for 
which it was intended. 

Sed nunc non erat his locus. 

It is not so much the business of the tragic writer 
to express what is true, as to express truths that be- 
long or may belong to the immediate circumstances 
from which they arise. He who says that two and 
two make four, that two right lines cannot inclose a 
space, says what cannot be contested ; but if he in- 
troduce this saying without necessity, if it have no 
pertinence to the circumstance from which it is 
supposed to arise, he is only laughed at for his 
pains. We naturally say to him, it is very true 
that two and two make four, — that two right lines 
do not inclose a space, but why make use of the 
observation ? what have these truths to do with 
the subject in question? The writer of genius, I 
say, perceives the absurdity of saying what is true, 
of inventing a situation which is affecting in its 
own nature, if they do not arise naturally from the 
preceding circumstance, or the general tenor, or 
ultimate tendency of the whole design. Here, 
unhappily, the writer of slow intellect, who pos- 
sesses neither delicacy of taste, nor quickness of 
discrimination, completely loses himself. He ima- 
gines relations where there is no relation, and 
creates discord where all is harmony in his opinion. 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 287 

It is of little importance for such a writer to know, 
that strong sensations, emotions, and passions, are 
all pleasing to the soul, and that the pleasures 
arising from Tragic representations, are all owing 
to the agency by which these affections of our 
nature are produced. It may serve him so far as 
to perceive that his object should be to produce 
those affections ; but if he cannot perceive how far 
one sentiment or situation agrees with another, he 
will bring forward the most affecting situations 
under the greatest disadvantages. 

The only advantage he can derive from becom- 
ing acquainted with the source of Tragic pleasure, 
is, that it will induce him to address himself ex- 
clusively to the sensitive nature of man. And in 
doing so, he will, no doubt, succeed better than a 
writer of greater talent, who imagines that he can 
only succeed by creating a perfect harmony be- 
tween ail the members which compose his work, 
and therefore attends more to this harmony than 
to the nature of the elements which he harmonizes 
with each other. Without harmony of parts, or, 
at least, an appearance of harmony, there can, it 
is true, be no Tragic pleasure ; but mere harmony 
is of little use, if the things harmonizing with each 
other be not originally fitted to produce strong- 
sensations. This is best proved by examples. I 
shall first quote passages, which, though beautiful 
in themselves, lose their effect through want of 



288 PHILOSOPHICAL ENQUIRY INTO 

harmony, or, in other words, because they do not 
arise naturally from the circumstances from which 
they are made to arise. The following* passage is 
beautiful in itself, but, as it is supposed to arise 
from extreme grief, it has little effect upon us, be- 
cause we know that real and undisguised grief 
would express itself with less art and study. 

Almeria. O no ! Time gives increase to my afflictions. 
The circling hours, that gather all the woes 
Which are diffus'd through the revolving year, 
Come heavy laden with th* oppressive weight 
To me ; with me, successively, they leave 
The sighs, the tears, the groans, the restless cares, 
And all the damps of grief that did retard their flight : 
They shake their downy wings, and scatter all 
The dire collected dews on my poor head, 
Then fly with joy and swiftness from me. 

Mourning Bride, Act I, Scene J. 

It is difficult to meet with any thing more beau- 
tiful than the following passage in Pope's Elegy to 
the Memory of an unfortunate Lady, and yet we 
cannot endure it, because it is not the effusion of 
real feeling, though it affects to be so. " It is not," 
says Lord Kaimes, very justly, " the language of 
the heart, but of the imagination, indulging its 
flights at ease, and by that means, is eminently 
discordant with the subject." 

What though no weeping loves thy ashes grace, 
Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face ? 



THE SOURCE OP TRAGIC PLEASURE. 289 

What, though no sacred earth allow thee room, 
Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb ; — 
Yet shall thy grave with rising flowers be drest, 
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast : 
There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow, 
There the first roses of the year shall blow ; 
While angels with their silver wings o'ershade 
The ground, now sacred by thy reliques made. 

The following passage from the last act of the 
Careless Husband is natural and affecting in itself, 
but when we reflect that it does not harmonize 
with the general manners and language of Lady 
Easy, or the characteristic mildness of her charac- 
ter, the effect is lost upon us. We should instantly 
sympathize with the joy which it expresses, if it 
came from a person capable of feeling such exqui- 
site raptures. 

Lady Easy, O the soft treasure ! the dear reward of long- 
desiring love.— Thus ! thus to have you mine, is something 
more than happiness j 'tis double life, and madness of abound- 
ing joy. 

We see, then, that passages which are beautiful 
in themselves, lose a great portion of their effect 
upon the mind, when they do not harmonize with 
the whole assemblage of parts with which they are 
connected, and particularly with the immediate 
circumstances from which they arise. But even 
want of harmony is more tolerable than insipidity, 
though it be all of a piece, simply because insipid- 
ity, however consistent it may be with the entire 

u 



'290 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

of the parts to which it is united, can never rouse 
the mind to life and energy, can never excite those 
stronger feelings without which pleasure can have 
no existence. We are frequently pleased, in spite 
of us, with a passage which has neither harmony 
in itself, nor with any thing else, and which is even, 
in some degree, unintelligible, if it contain some 
grand and striking images, which lift the soul 
above itself, and- waft it, it knows not where, and 
it " cares not wherefore." The following passage 
is quoted by an eminent critic, as an instance of 
pure rant and extravagance ; and yet the images 
are so grand and imposing in themselves, that 
though Lucan has carried his extravagance too far 
in the principal idea, we cannot help feeling a cer- 
tain glow of pleasure in dwelling on the splendour 
of the scene presented to us. This pleasure, it is 
true, would be greater if there w r ere more consis- 
tency ; but though this inconsistency lessens, it 
cannot entirely extinguish the sublime emotion. 

" Romanum nomen, et omne 
Imperium magno est tumuli modus. Obrue Saxa 
Crimine plena deum. Si tota est Hereulis Oete, 
Et Juga tota vacant Bromio Nyseia 5 quare 
Unus in Egypto magno lapis ? Omnia Lagi 
Rura tenere potest, si nullo cespite nomen 
Haeserit. Erremus populi, cinerumque tuorum, 
Magne metu nullas Nili calcemus arenas. — L, viii. 1. 798. 

Where there are seas, or air, or earth, or skies, 
Where'er R >me's empire stretches, Pompey lies. 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 291 

Far be the vile memorial then convey'd ! 
Nor let this stone the partial gods upbraid. 
Shall Hercules all Oetas heights demand, 
And Nysa's hill for Bacchus only stand ; 
"While one poor pebble is the warrior's doom, 
That fought the cause of Liberty and Rome ? 
If Fate decrees he must in Egypt lie, 
Let the whole fertile realm his grave supply 
Yield the wide country to his awful shade, 
Nor let us dare on any part to tread, 
Fearful we violate the mighty dead. 



} 



In fact, so powerfully are we swayed by what- 
ever excites a deep and powerful sensation in us, that 
we forget the greatest extravagance of expression 
when it arises from extreme and violent passion, 
but then extreme passion makes us only ridicule 
the person in whom it is exhibited, if we perceive no 
sufficient cause for it, because we suspect it is all a 
trick. In the following passage from the Phaedra 
of Racine, the earth, the ocean, and the very heavens 
are horror-struck at the monstre sauvage of the 
poet, and yet we excuse the boldness of the picture, 
because we perceive that the exaggeration of The- 
ramene is suggested by his own fears. 

Le ciel avec horreur volt ce monstre sauvage ; 
La teire s'en emeut, Fair en est infect^, 
Le flot qui l'apporta recule epouvant£ ! 

Insipidity, on the contrary, or any scene or de- 
scription not fitted to excite strong sensations, will 
fail of imparting pleasure, however well adapted 

u2 



292 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

it may be to its place. Hence it is, that Shak- 
speare seldom affects us where he has no opportu- 
nity of exciting passion or emotion, or where he 
purposely strays into reasoning and observation. 
How lifeless and uninteresting is the following 
passage from Hamlet. 

They clepe us drunkards, and with swinish phrase 

Soil our addition ; and indeed it takes 

From our achievements, though performed at height, 

The pith and marrow of our attribute. 

So oft it chances in particular men, 

That for some vicious mole of Nature in them, 

As, in their birth, (wherein they are not guilty, 

Since Nature cannot choose his origin,) 

By the o'ergrowth of some complexion, 

Oft breaking down the pales and forts of reason ; 

Or by some habit, that too much o'erleavens 

The form of plausive manners ; that these men, 

Carrying, I say, the stamp of one defect, 

(Being Nature's livery, or Fortune's scar,) 

Their virtues else, be they as pure as grace, 

As infinite as man may undergo, 

Shall in the general censure take corruption, 

From that particular fault. Act I, Scene 7. 

Racine had a fine opportunity, in the following 
soliloquy, of describing the tumults, anxieties, and 
distracting cares, excited in the breast of a lover 
who had been obliged to conceal his passion for 
several years, and consequently of exciting that 
corresponding sympathy in the audience that would 
have yielded them the highest degree of Tiagic 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 293 

pleasure. He has not done so, however, and con- 
sequently we read or hear it spoken with perfect 
indifference, on account of its tameness, its cold, 
phlegmatic reasoning, where all should be the ex- 
pression of strong and violent feeling, and its con- 
sequent unfitness to excite in us those sensations, 
or feelings, in the absence of which Tragedy must 
always fail of imparting pleasure : 

He* bien ! Antiochus, es tu toujours le meme ? 

Pourrai je, sans trembler, lui dire, je vous aime ? 

Mais quoi ! deja je tremble j et mon coeur agite 

Craint autant ce moment que je l'ai souhaite\ 

Berenice autrefois m'ota toute esperance. 

Elle m'imposa meme un Eternal silence. 

Je me suis tu cinq ans ; et, jusques a ce jour, 

D'un voile d 'amide j'ai couvert mon amour. 

Dois-je croire qu'au rang ou Titus la destine 

Elle m'ecoute mieux que dans la Palestine ? 

II Tepouse. Ai-je done, attendu ce moment. 

Pour me venir encore declarer son amant } 

Quel fruit me reviendra d'un aveu temdraire ? 

Ah ! puis qu'il faut partir, partons sans lui deplaire. 

Retirons-nous, sortons ; et, sans nous decouvrir, 

Allocs loin de ses yeux l'oublier, ou mourir. 

He* quoi'! souffrkr toujours un tourment quelle ignore ! 

Toujours verser des pleurs qu'il faut que je devore ! 

Quoi ! m&me en la perdant redouter son courroux ! 

Belle reine, et pourquoi vous offenseriez-vous ? 

Biens-je vous demander que vous quittiez l'empire ? 

•Que vous m'aimiez ? Helas ! je ne viens que vous dire 

Qu* apr£s m'§tre long temps flatte* que mon rival 

Trouveroit a ses vceux quelque obstajcle fatal. 



294 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

Aujourd* hui qu'il peut tout, que votre hymen s'avance, 

Excinple in fortune" d'une longue Constance, 

Apres cinq ans d'amour, et d'espoir superflus, 

Je pars, fidcle encore, quandje n'espere plus. 

Au lieu de s'offenser, elle pourra me plaindre. 

Quoi qu'il en soit, parlons j c'est assez nous contraindrc. 

Et que peut craindre, helas ! un amant sans espoir, 

Qui peut bien se r£soudre a ne la jam'ais voir ) 

Berenice, Acte I, Scene 2. 

In the two following passages, Shakspeare had 
an equal opportunity of describing the influence 
of grief over the mind, and consequently of ex- 
citing in us those corresponding sympathies, which, 
as in the former case, would strongly affect us. He 
has failed, however, like Racine, and is far below 
him in dignity. Whenever Shakspeare sinks, he 
sinks to the earth, whenever he rises, he out-tops 
the heavens. If Racine does not always keep in 
the midway, at least he never rises so high, or sinks 
so low. 

Queen. Ah my poor princes ! ah my tender babes ! 
My unblown flow'rs, new-appearing sweets ! 
If yet your gentle souls fly in the air, 
And be not fixed in doom perpetual, 
Hover about me with your airy wings, 
And hear your mother's lamentation. 

Richard III. Act IV, Scene 4. 

King Philip. You are as fond of grief as of your child. 

Constance. Grief fills the room up of my absent child > 
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me, 
Puts on hi3 pretty looks., repeats his words, 



THE SOURCE OP TRAGIC PLEASURE. 295 

Remembers me of all his gracious parts, 
Stuffs out his vacant garment with his form ; 
Then have I reason to be fond of grief. 

King John j Act III, Scene 6. 

It is obvious, then, that nothing will please in 
Tragedy, but what produces a strong sensation ; 
and, consequently, no vastness of conception, ac- 
curacy of description, felicity of expression, per- 
fection of method, in a word, no exuberance of 
idea, or rapidity of genius, will ever produce a 
tragedy fit for representation, unless it teem with 
scenes, images, sentiments, and situations, which 
are fitted to produce strong sensations in the au- 
dience. The writer of slow intellect who presents 
us with such scenes and situations will please in- 
finitely more, however discordantly he may have 
connected them together, than a writer of the 
brightest genius, who displays all his art in the 
production of sentiments which, while they require 
not only great industry, -but great discrimination 
of idea to arrive at them, serve only to puzzle the 
understanding, instead of affecting the sensitive 
part of our nature. He may produce a tragedy that 
proves him a man of genius, but yet he may shew 
himself totally ignorant of the human heart, and 
particularly of the source of those pleasures which 
he seeks to produce. Addison's Cato sufficiently 
evinces the genius of its author, and yet its want 
of success proves, that Addison was ignorant of 



296 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

the secret of producing Tragic pleasure, which is 
merely saying, that he knew not that this pleasure 
arises from the creation of such images, circum- 
stances, and situations as strongly affect the sensi- 
tive part of our nature, and that a mere appeal to 
the understanding is totally barren of delight. The 
advantage which the Tragic writer derives from 
knowing the true source of Tragic pleasure is, 
therefore, very obvious ; and, consequently, the 
utility of the inquiry which forms the subject of 
the present work. It is true, that a writer of the 
most ordinary talent, the moment he perceives the 
true source of Tragic pleasure, may avoid the 
errors of those who have been ignorant of it, as 
well as the writer of genius ; but though both keep 
equally clear from this rock, the writer of limited 
views is continually striking against others, while 
the former* having once ascertained the point for 
which he is bound, ventures boldly into the great 
ocean, perceives at a distance the rocks in which 
the other is entangled, sails round them, and enters 
triumphantly into the haven for which he is 
bound. But, though the writer of genius retains 
always his superiority over the Baviad tribe, it is 
still clear, and verified by long experience, that a 
writer of the greatest genius will be shipwrecked 
in tragedy, if he mistake the true source of Tragic 
pleasure. The number of eminent authors who 
have failed in this species of writing, while they 



THE SOURCE OP TRAGIC PLEASURE. 297 

have attained the highest eminence in others, 
prove, that without knowing, antecedently, whence 
Tragic pleasure arises, no exuberance of genius 
will succeed in producing a tragedy fitted for the 
Stage. Several living writers, of no very high 
character, have given us tragedies which have suc- 
ceeded perhaps beyond their own expectations ; 
while writers of much greater eminence have com- 
pletely failed. From the dramatic attempts of 
Lord Byron and Sir Walter Scott, it is very evident 
they have mistaken the true source of Tragic plea- 
sure. Neither Shakspeare himself, nor, perhaps, 
any other Tragic writer, could tell in what the 
secret of producing this pleasure consists, and, 
consequently, their success has arisen from having 
been guided instinctively into the true path by the 
natural impulse of their own genius. Shakspeare 
drew all his scenes, characters, and situations from 
nature : he travelled not into the ideal world in 
search of abstruse sentiments^ or catachrestical 
associations : he appealed not to the understand- 
ing, but to the feelings of human nature. He was 
perfectly acquainted with the human heart, and 
the influence which is exercised upon it by external 
circumstances. He is full of allusions to the pre- 
judices, the manners, the traditions, the weak- 
nesses, and popular opinions of his age, and, conse- 
quently, wrote what came home to the feelings, 
and not to the intellect, of every individual. He 



298 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

therefore seldom fails of producing strong sensa- 
tions, though he was, in all probability, perfectly 
ignorant of the cause to which he owed his success, 
namely the excitement of strong sensations, emo- 
tions, and passions. " Shakspeare," says Dr. 
Johnson, u is, above all other writers, at least 
above all modern writers, the poet of nature, the 
poet that holds up to his readers a faithful mirror 
of manners and of life. His characters are not 
modified by the customs of particular places, un- 
practised by the rest of the world, by the particu- 
larities of studies or professions, which can ope- 
rate but on small numbers, or by the accidents of 
transient fashions, or temporary opinions : they are 
the genuine progeny of common humanity, such 
as the world will always supply, and observation 
will always find. His persons always act and 
speak by the influence of those general passions 
and principles by which all minds are agitated, and 
the whole system of life is continued in motion."* 
It was from this close adherence to human na- 
ture that Shakspeare succeeded so admirably in 
awakening all those slumbering emotions and pas- 
sions which lie dormant in the human breast, and 
which require only those kindred images, circum- 
stances, and situations, which naturally arise from 
the condition of our nature, and from the rela- 

* Preface to Shakspeare. 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 299 

tions that eternally connect man to man, to rouse 
them into life and being. He sought not after those 
remote allusions which lie beyond the pale of sen- 
sitive recognition, and can be grasped only by pure 
intellection. Hence all his scenes, all his senti- 
ments, even his very reasoning and philosophy, 
wear the genuine stamp of sensible existence. 
Every thing is brought home to our feelings, so 
that the representation is not a mere symbol, or 
faint image of nature. It can hardly be called a 
copy, for the imitation approaches so nearly to the 
original, that it has the same effect upon us as if it 
were nature itself. The impression is therefore of 
a strong and ardent character, and such an impres- 
sion is always pleasing to us, if the theory which 
I have adopted on the subject be founded in truth. 
In Shakspeare there are no forced images : every 
thing arises naturally from the circumstance which 
produces it, and therefore every thing affects us ; 
first, because the image itself is clear, palpable, and 
distinct, such as requires no exercise of mind to 
comprehend it, but which every person recognizes 
instinctively, the moment it is presented to him ; 
secondly, because it is in perfect harmony with the 
circumstance from which it arises, and conse- 
quently loses no portion of its effect upon us ; for, 
as I have shewn in the above examples, wherever 
we perceive a want of harmony, — wherever we 
perceive an image, or a description, that seems to 



300 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

be at variance with the circumstance from which 
it is made to arise, our nature revolts against it, 
unless it be so beautiful in its own nature, that we 
cannot help being pleased with it. Like a female 
of extraordinary beauty, but of immoral propen- 
sities, we gaze upon her with a sensation which is 
far from being disagreeable, though we reprove 
ourselves, at the same moment, for being capable 
of feeling it. 

The images of Shakspeare, then, have this two- 
fold advantage, that they are, in themselves, fitted 
to produce strong sensations in us, and that they 
render these sensations still stronger by their ari- 
sing naturally from the circumstance which pro- 
duce them. We are pleased with them, not only 
on their own account, but from the satisfaction of 
perceiving, that they are not counterfeits. Thus it 
is we are pleased with a beautiful female of amia- 
ble and interesting manners, after a very short 
acquaintance ; but this pleasure is greatly diminish- 
ed, if we happen to discover that her morals are 
not in perfect unison with her manners and person ; 
while, on the other hand, it is greatly increased, if 
we discover that her virtues and sweetness of dis- 
position are of a still more endearing, and engaging 
character than her personal attractions. It is so 
in tragedy : a beautiful image will please, from its 
own native beauty, whether we meet with it in 
Shakspeare, or some inferior poet ; but the latter 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 301 

takes away from the pleasure, by placing it in a 
situation to which it is not adapted — by making 
it arise from a circumstance or sentiment with 
which it has no immediate relation, no relation 
whatever but what exists in the remote and far- 
fetched associations of the .poet. Thus, however 
beautiful the image may be in itself, the poet deba- 
ses it, by making it appear a perfect counterfeit, 
an unnatural creation, while, in Shakspeare, the 
pleasure which the very same image is fitted to im- 
part by its own native beauty, or the characters, 
or situations with which it is associated, is greatly 
increased by the satisfaction of perceiving, that it 
is not merely beautiful, but true to nature; — that it 
is such an image as the circumstance from which 
it arises is fitted to suggest ; that it is in perfect 
harmony with the characters and situations with 
which it is connected ; and that no other image can 
be substituted in its stead, without weakening the 
general effect ; and, consequently, without dimi- 
nishing the pleasure which it imparts. The images 
and situations, therefore, which please us in Tra- 
gedy, are those which are not only fitted, from their 
own nature, abstracted from the circumstances 
with which they are connected, to excite strong 
sensations, but which, at the same time, have the 
appearance of arising by a kind of unavoidable 
necessity, from the circumstance of the moment; 
and which cannot be displaced by any other images, 



302 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

or sentiments more natural, or better fitted to their 
immediate place. 

By beautiful images', beautiful sentiments, beau- 
tiful situations, beautiful scenes, beautiful deli- 
neations of the heart and its affections, emotions, 
and passions, I mean any image, sentiment, &c. 
which produces a strong impression upon us, and 
affects us deeply, whether it be in its own nature 
beautiful or deformed. Nothing, it is true, will 
affect us as strongly when it is improperly, as 
when it is naturally introduced, unless the poet 
has the art of concealing its want of just applica- 
tion ; but a description may be extremely natural, 
or, at least, appear so to us, and consequently 
extremely beautiful, though the object described 
should be extremely deformed. No one will deny, 
that Milton's description of Death is highly beau* 
tiful, though the portrait represents him as the 
most horrid of objects. 

The other shape, 
If shape it might be called, that shape had none 
Distinguishable in member, joint, or limb, 
Or substance might be called, that shadow seem'd, 
For each seemed either : black it stood as Night, 
Fierce as ten Furies, terrible as Hell, 
And shook a dreadful dart. 

Whether this be, or be not, a true portrait of 
death, is of no importance whatever, if it be a 
portrait of the image we are apt to form of him 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 303 

in our own minds ; and it is the perfect agreement 
or harmony that exists between this portrait of the 
grim monarch of terrors* and the image which we 
generally form of him ourselves* combined with 
the fitness of death, in its own nature, to produce 
strong sensations, that constitute the beauty of the 
description. Hence it is, that the most ordinary, 
and the most disagreeable objects, have been made 
the subjects of paintings that are highly admired. 
What renders the imitation of such objects, how- 
ever, beautiful, is the harmony, or accordance 
which we perceive between them and the original, 
that is, the resemblance which they bear to each 
other. That the beauty, and, consequently, the 
pleasure, arises from this resemblance, is rendered 
evident by a very simple circumstance : it is this, 
that whenever the imitation is so complete, as to 
make it be mistaken for the original, the beauty is 
lost, because we can no longer perceive any resem- 
blance whatever ; for a thing cannot resemble it- 
self, as resemblance supposes a likeness between 
things which are not the same, and also supposes 
appearances in which they agree, and others in 
which they disagree. Where they disagree in all 
their appearances, there is no resemblance, and 
where they agree in all, the idea of resemblance 
never occurs to us. One egg cannot be called a 
resemblance of another, for this would be to call 
it a resemblance of itself. We can never admire 
imitations which are mistaken for their originals : 



304 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

this is evident in the imitation of roses, fruit, &c. 
because they are capable of being imitated so per- 
fectly, that the imitation is frequently mistaken for 
the original. An artificial apple creates no plea- 
sure, because we can perceive no resemblance : we 
mistake it for an apple itself, and even when we 
detect the illusion, the original sensation still re- 
mains, because we are still unable to trace any 
resemblance. It still presents itself to our senses, 
not the imitation of an apple, but an apple itself, 
and, in every thing that appeals to the sensitive 
part of our nature, it is the correspondent emo- 
tion, or the impression which it makes, and not 
any deduction of the reasoning faculty, that deter- 
mines our pleasure. Reason tells us to no pur-, 
pose, that an artificial apple is a mere imitation ; 
for while it appears a real apple to our senses, we 
cannot help feeling that sensation which is pro- 
duced by a real apple, let us reason on the differ- 
ence between reality and imitation as much as we 
will. There is, consequently, in painting, a point 
beyond which the painter must not venture ; and, 
in mere portraits of external nature, the greatest 
artist is he, who can reach this point without pass- 
ing over it. It is a knowledge, however, which 
cannot be communicated by art; unless the painter 
feel it, he cannot be taught it. 

Nee majis arte traditur quam gustus aut odor. 

The entire of the pleasures imparted by the imi- 
tations of natural objects which are indifferent to 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 305 

us arises, therefore, from perceiving the accuracy 
with which they are imitated. Pigs, dogs, sheep, 
shepherds, &c. are represented in some landscapes 
less beautiful than they are in nature : and yet, 
such landscapes may be finer paintings, and, con- 
sequently, more beautiful, than those in which the 
painter has studied to make his shepherds well- 
formed men, because, what we admire in such 
paintings, is not the beauty of the shepherd or his 
dogs, but the art with which they are imitated, or, 
in other words, the correctness of the resemblance. 
I am aware, that Mr. Payne Knight, while he ad- 
mits them to be beautiful, attributes their being so, 
not to any resemblance which they bear to their 
originals, but to the omission of such qualities as 
are disagreeable in the original, and the selection 
only of such as are pleasing. But, when we con- 
sider, that the representation of an old man, bend- 
ing with age and infirmities, will be pronounced 
by every person, a more beautiful figure in a 
picture, when executed by a superior artist, than 
the figure of a beautiful, well-formed youth, 
when executed by an inferior hand, Mr. Knight's 
theory can have little claim to our attention. In 
the painting of such objects, I agree with Mr. 
Price, that "they can never produce beautiful, 
that is, lovely pictures ;"* for it is obvious that 

* Price's Dialogues. 
X 



306 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

there is nothing in the figures themselves, except 
when they are supposed to be influenced by some 
strong passion, that can interest us ; and, therefore, 
it is not the figures or painting, but the accuracy 
of the imitation, that gives us pleasure. It is, 
however, a pleasure of a light character, and is as 
different from the pleasures imparted by an histo- 
rical painting, which represents deep and affecting 
situations, as the pleasures of comedy from that of 
tragedy. The characters and scenes represented 
in a comedy, have nothing interesting in them- 
selves : they produce no strong impression, and are 
forgotten the moment they pass out of our sight ; 
but yet we are pleased for the time being, because 
we cannot help admiring the fidelity with which they 
represent their originals in nature. It is curious -to 
observe, how much learning has been wasted in 
attempting to shew, why tragedy pleases more than 
comedy; but the moment we come to perceive, 
that comedy pleases us merely as an imitation, not 
as representing things that would strongly affect us 
in reality, while tragedy pleases not only as an 
imitation, but also as representing characters, 
events, catastrophes, &c. which would strongly 
excite our sympathies, if we beheld them in real 
life, we have little difficulty in perceiving what all 
the writers on the subject have never yet perceived ; 
why tragedy affects us more than comedy. The 
representations in comedy resemble the imitation 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 307 

of ordinary objects in painting. We regard not 
the objects, but we regard the truth and accuracy 
with which they are imitated. In tragedy, it is 
different : we regard the objects themselves, be- 
cause we could not avoid regarding them in real 
life ; and we also regard the great art which is 
necessary to represent them properly. Hence it 
happens, that in tragedy we are not satisfied with 
mere imitation : we seek, at the same time, to 
behold characters that are strongly marked, and 
which, consequently, produce strong sensations in 
us. We love to see them placed in situations which 
would affect us powerfully, if we met with them 
in real life. If, however, we place such characters 
and situations in the hands of an inferior writer, 
they will cease to interest us, because he will 
destroy them in the imitation. He will make 
emotions co-exist that cannot possibly exist toge- 
ther : he will disunite what ought to be united, and 
connect what ought to be unconnected. Instead 
of harmony, then, there will be a perpetual discord, 
however well any characters may be fitted in them 
selves to affect us strongly. Human nature is so con- 
stituted, particularly in men of refined feelings, that 
it cannot relish what is, in itself, most pleasing to 
it, if it be accompanied by palpable inconsisten- 
cies. We relieve a man whom we know to be sud- 
denly reduced from a state of affluence to compa- 
rative distress, and we find a pleasure in sympa- 

x2 



308 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

thizing with his misfortunes, if he endure them as 
a man. But this sympathy and pleasure instantly 
cease, if we know him to exaggerate his misfor- 
tunes, or if we see him perfectly unaffected by 
his sudden translation from affluence to poverty, 
because our own feelings tell us, that we could not 
endure such a change without feelings unknown to 
those who have always lived in the state to which 
we aro reduced. There is something, then, in the 
man's conduct that clashes with our feelings, and 
destroys our sympathy; and this something is a 
want of consistency; for man is the creature of 
circumstances, and when we perceive a man unaf- 
fected by that influence which the situation in 
which he is placed ought to exercise over him, we 
naturally feel, whether we reason upon it or not, 
that there is a something inconsistent in the man's 
character. The Tragic writer, consequently, who 
cannot observe consistency of character, of man- 
ners, sentin ants, &c. will perpetually offend us, 
even though he should place situations before us 
that are strongly affecting in themselves. Men of 
a sanguine and ardent temperament, however, will 
enjoy these situations, notwithstanding the incon- 
sistencies which accompany them, for they are so 
strongly affected by the feelings of the moment, that 
the inconsistencies escape them ; or, if they be so 
palpable as to force themselves upon their attention, 
yet the disagreeable sensations which they are calcu- 



THB SOURCE OP TRAGIC PLEASURE. 309 

lated to produce, is lost in the ardour and intensity 
of the stronger emotions which they excite. Thesein- 
consistencies, however, would be as disagreeable to 
them as to others, if they were perfectly cool at 
the moment they perceived them ; but the warmth 
of passion either throws a veil over them, or makes 
them appear like the lighter shades in painting. 
The shade that is scarcely visible in painting, from 
the stronger shade by which it is obscured, would 
appear distinct and palpable, if this stronger shade 
were removed. It is so with man : while he is 
under the dominion of passion, he has only a faint 
perception of things that would be glaringly ma- 
nifest if he could remove the passion that throws 
them into shade, and gives them a sort of ideal or 
imaginary existence. Tragedy, then, loses a great 
part of its effect where there is inconsistency, or 
want of harmony perceived ; and yet, in tragedy, 
as well as in painting, there may be harmony with- 
out producing tragic pleasure. We should look 
upon the finest of Titian's landscapes with indiffer- 
ence, if the human species did not appear in it, 
and yet all the harmony of light, shade, colouring, 
perspective, &c. might be as well observed without 
the appearance of any figure whatever. The finest 
landscapes always please us less than the figures 
which appear in them, and the celebrated Arc** Via 
of Poussin would, perhaps, never be heard of, weie 
it not for the figures with which he has peopled it. 



310 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

More, then, depends on the things harmonizing 
with each other, than on harmony itself; and 
men of sanguine temperaments, as I have just 
observed, are satisfied with the slightest con- 
nexion, if the things connected be pleasing in them- 
selves, that is, if they produce strong sensations. 
Situations that are not fitted to produce strong 
sensations will please no person, however harmo- 
niously combined, while those which are fitted to 
produce them, will please, even in the midst of 
inconsistencies, men of an ardent temperament, 
or any man who has once yielded to the sensations 
which they are fitted to produce, so that strong 
sensations and tragic pleasure will be always found 
to accompany each other, by whatsoever means 
they are excited. The monument represented in 
Poussin's Arcadia, enclosing the remains of a 
young female, a circumstance which is made known 
by the statue placed upon the tomb, after the man- 
ner of the ancients, and the four young children 
who happen to meet it unexpectedly in this smi- 
ling country, where pleasure and festivity were 
only sought after, and only anticipated, produces 
a stronger sensation in the mind, and, consequently, 
imparts more pleasure, than all the smiling and 
romantic objects which the painter has scattered 
over this Elysian scene. If it be asked why the 
representation of this event affects us so strongly, 
I reply, because it would affect us in real life, be- 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 311 

cause we could not pass by such a tomb, and read 
such an inscription, where all was joy and pleasure, 
and festivity around, without shedding a silent 
tear, or, at least, (supposing our natures too stub- 
born and untractable to yield to so soft and de- 
lightful an emotion) without being moved. Such 
a tomb, met in a church-yard, or in a wilderness, 
where it stood unconnected with kindred asso- 
ciations, would not produce this effect. Our sym- 
pathies, then, would be weakened in the first place, 
by being divided between different objects ; and, 
in the second, by being ourselves antecedently in 
no pleasing mood, from the dull scenery which 
surrounded us, for, as I have already observed, the 
more happy we are ourselves, the more prepared 
we are to sympathize in the woes of others. The 
unfortunate man is incapable of all those softer 
and milder affections which resolve themselves 
into sympathy. The tomb affects us, then, in 
painting, because it would affect us in real life. 
It is so in tragedy : the representation of common 
scenes, and common events, makes no impression 
upon us, but what arises, as in painting, from the 
exactness of the imitation, its resemblance to the 
original, and the consequent skill of the artist who 
produced so natural an imitation. We admire not 
the objects presented in such paintings, because 
they would not affect us in real life, but still we 
admire the skill and powers of the artist. The 



312 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

pleasure, consequently, is of a light character, and 
can never approach the pleasure arising* from paint- 
ings, which represent events and circumstances, 
which, in real life, would affect us strongly. In 
beholding these paintings, we forget entirely the 
artist, and are attentive only to the deep and af- 
fecting situations which are placed before us. When- 
ever we perceive a display of mental energy, and 
comprehension of idea, we are pleased, though this 
energy should be exercised on subjects of no in- 
terest. The style of the great Venetian painters 
seldom approaches closely to nature ; — the expres- 
sion and colouring are equally feeble, and yet their 
paintings have always ranked among the first pro- 
ductions of the art, not, obviously, because they 
please the mere organs of sense, not because the 
eye dwells upon them with pleasure, but because 
we perceive that they display the greatest technical 
skill, and the most consummate acquaintance with 
the science or principles of the art. They please, 
however, only those who are acquainted with those 
principles, because they address themselves to the 
discursive, not to the sensitive faculties. He who 
merely judges through the medium of his feelings, 
looks upon them with the utmost indifference, and 
yet, it is only he who is affected through the 
senses that can properly be said to be affected at 
all ; and it is only the painting that addresses 
itself to the feelings, not to our understanding, that 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 313 

can ever produce a powerful impression. What 
appeals to our reason may produce a light, agree- 
able sensation ; and he who judges exclusively by 
reason may feel a sensation of a similar character ; 
but it is only what appeals to our feelings that 
can affect us strongly; and it is only he who 
judges by his feelings that can be strongly affected. 
It is, therefore, necessary to distinguish that light 
pleasure which arises from mere imitation, or from 
a perception of the superior skill of the artist, 
whether displayed in correct imitation or otherwise, 
from that stronger, and more impassioned feeling 
which arises less from the correct imitation of 
nature, than from the very nature of the things 
which are imitated. This holds equally true in 
poetry, music, and all imitations whatever. They 
please us not only as imitations or copies of nature, 
but also as the representations of things which, in 
their own nature, interest us strongly. The latter 
however is always the greater pleasure. I am 
more pleased with a portrait of my friend than 
with that of a stranger, allowing both to be equal- 
ly well executed, simply because the person it re- 
presents is more interesting to me than a stranger ; 
but I am still pleased with the portrait of a stranger 
if it be well executed, though the pleasure is much 
less than in the former case. -The one is the plea- 
sure of mere imitation, the other of imitation, and 
the thing imitated. If the portrait of the stranger 



314 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

had been executed with greater skill than that of 
my friend, it would still impart less pleasure, which 
shows that the subject is of more importance than the 
genius with which it is executed. A lover would not 
exchange an indifferent portrait of his fair one for the 
transfiguration of Raphael. Hence a tragic writer 
of inferior talent, will produce a more pleasing and 
successful tragedy, if he be happy in his subject, 
than a writer of the most transcendent genius, 
whose imitation is of things that are not fitted in 
themselves to excite strong sensations. Can any 
thing, then, be more obvious than that no power 
of genius can avail a tragic writer, unless he know, 
antecedently, what it is that produces Tragic 
Pleasure, or unless he know that Tragic Pleasure 
can only be produced by producing strong sensa- 
tions, emotions, or passions, a position which it 
has been the object of this work to establish. Pos- 
sessed of thisknowledge,he selects only such subjects 
and characters, and places them in such situations 
and relations to each other as affect us strongly ; 
but, without a knowledge of what causes this 
pleasure, he takes up his subject at random, un- 
less, like Schlegel, he adopt an erroneous theory, 
and imagine that a feeling of the dignity of human 
nature is the cause of Tragic Pleasure. If, how- 
ever, he adopt this theory, his situation is still 
worse, because he always aims at supporting the 
dignity of his characters. In doing so, his charac- 



THE SOURCE OP TRAGIC PLEASURE. 315 

ters have no character, because they are toujours 
le meme, always the same unchanged and un- 
changeable beings. With such beings we cannot 
sympathize. We know instinctively they are not 
such men as we are ourselves ; that they have not 
a particle of human nature in them ; in a word, 
that they are the mere creatures of the under- 
standing, who have no nature of their own, and 
are mere automatons in the hands of the poet. It is 
very evident that he who acts a dignified part where 
there is no occasion for it, acts as unnaturally as 
Captain Flash, who, to conceal his fears, cries out, 
cc what a damned passion I am in." If the captain 
were really in a passion, he would never have thought 
of it; because a man under the immediate influence 
of passion, never reflects that he is in a passion, 
having his whole mind directed to the object by 
which his passion has been excited. It is equally 
unnatural to be dignified on all occasions, or, more 
correctly speaking, upon any occasion in which it is 
not called for, or which does not put our dignity to 
the test. " There is a time to laugh and a time 
to cry," and there is no dignity in either. The 
dignified man consequently neither laughs nor 
cries ; but the natural man, he who is guided by 
the original laws of his own nature, and the in- 
fluences by which it is governed, laughs and cries 
whenever he has cause. It is only natural beings, 
however, with whom we can sympathize in tragedy, 



316 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

for the instant we perceive, or even suspect the 
least appearance of art, we awaken from the illu- 
sion that has laid hold of our sympathies ; and 
laugh either at our own folly or the unskilfulness 
of the poet, whose violation of nature, or want of 
art to conceal his art, has awoken us from our 
reams. 
All the other theories which I have quoted on 
the subject of Tragic Pleasure would lead us into 
similar violations of nature. They restrain the 
poet from entering into that wide career which 
nature has placed before him. They tell him that 
though man is subject to an infinite number of 
different propensities, sensations, feelings, passions, 
affections, and modes of sympathy, he must at- 
tend only to one law or affection of his nature ; that 
he must perpetually endeavour to keep this affec- 
tion alive ; that he must make all his characters, in 
whatever situation he places them, act under the 
influence of this affection, and obey no other law 
or propensities of his nature. Hence, his charac. 
ters will be more influenced in their sentiments 
more determined in the course which they intend to 
pursue, by the influence of this particular affection, 
than by the influence of the situation in which 
they are placed, while the natural man acts always 
under the influence of the moment. His affec- 
tions, feelings, sentiments, and sympathies, are, 
consequently, changing with every change of cir- 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 317 

cumstance and external influence, so that the 
toujours le meme of th systematic poet can never 
be applied to him. 

The theory which I have adopted on the source 
of Tragic Pleasure, confines the poet to no par- 
ticular system. In every tragedy there must be 
a system, so far as regards the unity, harmony, 
design, plot, &c. of the piece ; but if it appear, 
from what I have advanced on the subject, that 
all strong sensations, emotions, and passions, are 
pleasing to man, it is very obvious that the tragic 
poet is not confined to any particular law or affec- 
tion of his nature, because he is pleased with every 
sentiment and situation that produces a strong im- 
pression ; provided always that these sentiments 
and situations arise naturally from the progress of 
events. If it should be asked, how is the poet 
to know whether his images, situations, sen- 
timents, &c. are naturally placed, and harmonize 
with each other, I reply, that this knowledge cannot 
be communicated by any precepts of art, and that 
he who has not taste and judgment to discover the 
propriety of the relations which he has formed be- 
tween all the individual members of his piece, 
must be satisfied to remain ignorant of it. It is 
in this discrimination, and perception of propriety, 
that the writer of genius displays his superiority. 
The characters, images, sentiments, affections, 
modes of sympathy, circumstances, situations, 



318 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

events, &c. that may be introduced into a tragedy, 
are each of them infinitely diversified. There may 
be an infinite diversity of character, an infinite 
variety of images, sentiments, &c. Again, there 
is an infinite number of modes in which they can 
be brought together. In this infinity of conjunc- 
tions, and infinite variety of things conjoined, it is 
very obvious that no less than an infinity of rules 
can enable us to distinguish propriety from im- 
propriety ; because the image, sentiment, &c. 
which is proper in one conjunction, would be ab- 
surd in another. Yet, in all this variety, the writer 
of just feeling can determine instinctively without 
rule or precept. 

To bring the whole of what I have said on this 
subject to a conclusion ; it is obvious that the 
pleasures derived from Tragic Representations do 
not arise from a sense of the dignity of human 
nature, nor from any other particular sense ; that 
every thing, except in the cases which I have al 
ready mentioned, pleases us which produces a 
strong impression, and that nothing can please us 
when this strong impression is not made. If it be 
asked what produces a strong impression ; I an- 
swer, the question is easily resolved. The monu- 
ment in the Arcadia of Poussin, the ghost in 
Hamlet, the dagger in Macbeth, the tempest in 
Lear, the poison taken by Romeo, and a thousand 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 319 

similar causes will produce strong sensations in us, 
all of which will be attended with pleasure. 

-But if it be asked, what other, or how many- 
other causes produce strong sensations? I an- 
swer, that the number is without number. I 
could point out some hundreds, perhaps some 
thousands of them ; but this could serve no pur- 
pose, as not only thousands but millions would 
still remain. If, however, I am asked how is the 
tragic writer to determine whether the circum- 
stances and situations in which he places his charac- 
ters please or not ; I think I can give a general 
rule. If he place any of his characters in such a 
situation as would produce a strong sensation in 
himself, were he placed in it, it will produce the 
same sensation in the audience. They are men 
who are governed by the same influences by which 
he is governed. If, therefore, he invent a situation 
which would strongly affect himself were he placed 
in it, this situation will equally affect the audience ; 
and they will sympathize with any person whom 
they find placed in it, provided it be introduced 
without inconsistency. But, perhaps it may be 
said, that a tragic writer cannot always tell how 
he would feel affected in a certain situation, and, 
consequently, cannot determine how to conduct his 
characters through it. If this should be the case, 
I would advise such a writer to leave tragedy to 
others, and turn to something else. If nature has 



320 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

denied him feeling, it cannot be imparted to him 
by art ; and if he possess it, he can never be at a 
loss to determine how he would feel affected in any 
situation. I am willing to allow, that the audience 
will feel strongly affected by passages, sentiments, 
and situations in a tragedy, which would have no 
effect on some tragic writers ; but then I deny, that 
such writers could ever have placed such passages, 
sentiments, or situations before them. He who 
cannot feel affected by what he writes himself, will 
never affect those who read his productions. Nature 
has wisely ordered, that he who has no ardour of 
feeling in himself should be incapable of produc- 
ing any thing that can excite it in others. He, 
therefore, who hopes to produce an affecting tragedy 
without original sensibility of feeling, is building 
castles in the air. If he cannot feel himself, he 
cannot make others feel. 



■■ Si vis me flere, 

Dolendmn est priraum tibi ipsi. 

The tragic writer should, therefore, never aim 
to excite weak or feeble sensations. He should al- 
ways seek to produce effect by the agency of natural 
causes ; for if he fail in producing strong sensa- 
tions, his tragedy can have no interest, and, con- 
sequently, can impart no pleasure. The desire of 
producing effect in painting, generally leads to a 
perverted taste ; particularly where the subject is 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 321 

a portrait of sensible or external nature ; as land- 
scapes, &c. The transitions in painting* never should 
be too sudden, except on extraordinary occasions, 
because the appearances of nature are generally 
united by shades which gradually melt into each 
other; and unless the painter delineate with a 
delicate hand these associating shades, he does 
violence to nature, and destroys that effect which 
he intended to produce. A portrait of human 
nature, however, should essentially differ from tha 
of sensible or inanimate existence ; because the ap- 
pearances which it presents are totally different. 
Inanimate nature, as I have just shewn, varies 
its appearances by insensible degrees; but ani- 
mate or human nature, starts suddenly and pre- 
cipitately from one appearance, or extreme, to 
another ; and our philosophy fails us the moment 
we attempt to discover a connecting link. The 
man who is at this moment a lamb will present 
himself at the next moment a raging lion ; and 
the dramatic writer, who would give a faithful 
portrait of human nature, must start suddenly 
after him, and paint him as he finds him. If he 
cannot keep pace with the rapidity and violence of 
human passion, but wait to inform us of the im- 
perceptible causes that lead from one passion to 
another, he is no describer of human nature ; be- 
cause, the very man who rushes from one extreme 
of passion to another, cannot always tell himself 

Y 



322 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

the secret impulse by which he is guided. The 
tragic poet must, therefore, describe appearances, 
or portraits of human nature which are totally 
distinct from each other, though they lie side by 
side. The links, or shades, by which these ap- 
pearances or extremes of passion are united, must 
be kept in the back-ground, and their discovery left 
to the imagination of the reader or spectator. He 
must therefore always study what the painter of 
inanimate nature should almost always avoid ; 
namely, the production of effect. The transitions 
in the prominent features of his characters, their 
humours, passions, and eccentricities, must be 
sudden and rapid, in order to keep pace with the 
untamed energies and instant determinations of 
human nature. The poet who does this cannot 
possibly awaken in us cold or feeble sensations ; 
and the poet who neglects to do so, writes only to 
amuse himself ; for he who cannot follow human 
passion, or tread in her footsteps, whether she 
mount the daring steeps that oppose her progress, 
or rush down the precipices which threaten her 
with instant destruction, will write tragedy to no 
purpose if it be intended for representation. A 
tragedy not teeming with circumstances fitted to 
produce either strong emotions or passions, is 
sealed with the signet of oblivion, and its first 
representation will most probably be its last, except 
it be represented before an audience of philosophers. 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 323 

Addison's Cato, no doubt, would succeed very well 
if we could once throw off human nature, and view 
every thing through the medium of the understand- 
ing. We can hardly meet with a finer picture of the 
precipitancy of human determination, and the sud- 
denness with which it starts from one extreme to the 
other, from the slumber of indolence to the whelm- 
ing impetuosity of passion, than what is repre- 
sented in the following passage ; and yet it is not 
so much a picture of human nature as the real 
instinctive expression of nature itself. 

Osmyn. By heav'n t.:ou'st roused me from my lethargy, 

The spirit which was deaf to my own wrongs, 

And the loud cries of my dead father's blood, 

Deaf to revenge, — nay, which refused to hear 

The piercing sighs and murmurs of my love 

Yet unenjoyed : what not Almeira ould 

Revive or raise, my people's voice has waken'd. 

my Antonio, I am all on fire ; 

My soul is up in arms ready to charge, 

And bear amidst the foe with conquering troops. 

1 hear 'em call to lead 'em on to liberty, 
To victory j their shouts and clamours rend 

My ears, and reach the heavens : where is the king ? 

Where is Alphonso ? ha ! where ! wher^ indeed ? 

O I could tear and burst the strings of life, 

To break these chains. Off, off ye stains of royalty ! 

Off slavery ! O curse ! that I alone 

Can beat and flutter in my cage ; when I 

Would soar, and stoop at victory beneath ! 

Mourning Bride, Act 3, Scene 2. 



2 



324 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

The tragic poet, however, though he can never 
bring forward a tragedy that will succeed on the 
stage, unless it teem with those deep, striking, 
and affecting situations which excite strong sensa- 
tions in us, should still carefully avoid attempting 
to create these sensations too soon ; not only be- 
cause his audience are not prepared for them, and 
must be warmed to passion by degrees ; but be- 
cause the entire interest is lost if a stronger sensa- 
tion be followed by a weaker. The instant our 
feelings are raised to the highest, and that we know 
there is nothing to follow which can affect us 
more powerfully than we are at the moment, we 
instinctively make a motion to rise and be gone- 
We cherish the sensation with which we are 
impressed as a sacred and hallowed feeling; a 
test of our humanity which it would be an insult 
to our nature to suffer to be eradicated by the 
slighter sympathies which are to follow. But if 
some deeper and more affecting scene is still 
to be presented to us, we prepare ourselves for a 
still greater trial and exercise of our sympathies ; 
and we regard the strong sensation of the moment 
only as a foretaste of those deep and heart-rending 
emotions by which it is to be followed ; because 
the stronger the sensation the greater our pleasure. 

The poet must, therefore, so order his scenes 
and situations that they shall rise in interest and 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 325 

importance, so that a more affecting shall never 
precede a less affecting scene ; for in this case a 
stronger sensation would precede a weaker, and, 
consequently, destroy its effect. Every scene will 
have its full effect upon us if it be stronger, or 
produce stronger sensations than that which pre- 
cede it ; but we are inattentive to what we should 
otherwise consider the most affecting scene, if it 
should happen to be preceded by one still more 
affecting ; a proof, among many others, that the 
strongest sensation is that which our nature 
embraces with the most adhesive grasp. It is, 
therefore, only from the creation of scenes fitted 
to excite these strong impressions, that the tragic 
writer, whatever genius he may possess, can ever 
hope to succeed in such pieces as he intends for the 
stage ; for, in the absence of such scenes, he will 
derive no advantage from following the theories of 
those who deduce Tragic Pleasure from " a sense of 
the dignity of human nature ;" nor from " a com- 
parison between the tranquillity of our own situation 
and the distress to which the victims of Tragic 
Representation are exposed ;" nor from " our feel- 
ing of moral improvement which is gratified by the 
view of poetical justice, in the reward of the good 
and the punishment of the wicked;" nor from 
" fable operating on our passions, by representing 
its events as operating in our sight, and deluding 
us into a conviction of reality ;" nor from " the 



326 



PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 



energies and violent efforts displayed in feats of 
strength, courage, and dexterity, or the calm 
energies of virtue called forth by the exertions of 
passive fortitude ;" nor from any other source what- 
ever, as I have clearly proved in the first part of 
this work. The tragic poet may be acquainted 
with all these theories, and a thousand more, as- 
cribing the entire pleasure to one particular feeling 
of our nature ; but unless he present the audience 
with a succession of scenes, situations, &c. creat- 
ing a greater and a greater interest ; and, conse- 
quently, exciting stronger and stronger sensations, 
the audience will depart unsatisfied, and the plea- 
sure, whose origin has been the subject of the 
present work, will be found to have no existence. 
The tragic poet selects his characters either from 
the real or ideal world, from history or imagina- 
tion. The latter being a mere copy or type of the 
former, produces, as in all cases of imitation, a 
weaker impression. Two poets of equal genius, 
and equally happy in the selection and invention 
of their subject, will have very different success 
with the public, if one take his subject from history, 
the other from imagination ; for that which has 
only the appearance of reality, but which we know 
to be the pure offspring of fiction, can never affect 
us like that which we know to be founded in real 
facts. Facts derive their interest from two sources, 
and affect us, accordingly, either as individuals or 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. .327 

as men in general. A fact is either important on 
its own account^ or important as regards a certain 
number of individuals. If the former, it in- 
terests all mankind : if the latter, it interests only 
the individuals concerned, and this last interest is 
always the strongest. Hence every nation takes 
more delight in tragedies taken from its own his- 
tory than in those taken from the history of other 
nations ; and in those taken from the history of 
other nations more than in tragedies taken from 
imagination. But facts of a momentous and im- 
portant nature are interesting to all men, from the 
mere circumstance of their being important, though 
not so interesting to any particular nation, as those 
which are taken from its own history. A tragedy, 
however, may be founded in the history of our 
country and still be uninteresting. Du Bos justly 
observes, that the subject of the Eneid was more 
interesting to the Roman people than to any other 
nation ; and it may be truly said, that the subject 
of Richard III. is more interesting to an English- 
man than Coriolanus. There are exceptions how- 
ever to this rule. A tragedy, from whatever history 
it is taken, will be more interesting to all nations, if 
it excite strong sensations and give a true portrait of 
human nature, than a tragedy taken from the history 
of any particular nation will be to the very nation 
from which it is taken, if it describe passions, feel- 
ings, and sympathies, that could not arise naturally, 



328 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

either from the individual characters of the dramatis 
persona?, or the peculiar situation in which they 
are placed. Lear, for instance, is a tragedy that 
must interest all mankind, because it is a perfect 
delineation of human nature, of its frailties, and its 
passions. When I say it is a perfect delineation of 
human nature, I mean to say, that it is a perfect 
picture or description of the manner in which 
particular characters act or are acted upon when 
placed in particular situations. Whenever an in- 
dividual is placed in a distressful situation, we 
cannot help sympathizing with him, to whatever 
country he belongs. 

Homo sum ; humanl nihil a me alienum puto. 

It is certain, however, that, cceteris paribus, we 
will enter more deeply into the feelings, and share 
more in the affections of our own countrymen, than 
in those of any other. 

It is obvious then, that the best tragedy is that 
which unites both the interests of which I have 
spoken ; namely, the tragedy which, from its 
very nature, interests all mankind, and from its 
subject is more particularly interesting to thenation 
for which it is written. 

Having shewn that writers of the greatest genius 
may fail, and have failed in producing that interest 
without which a tragedy is frequently damned on 
the first night of its representation, while writers 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 329 

of inferior merit have succeeded beyond all expec- 
tation, a question naturally arises, how this comes 
to pass ; for if both be equally ignorant of the 
true source of Tragic Pleasure, why should not the 
one succeed as well as the other ? The theory which 
I have adopted on the subject will, if I mistake 
not, easily explain the mystery. The pleasure 
arising from Tragic Representation, as I have 
already shown, arises not from beauty of language, 
delicacy of sentiment, beauty of imagery, refine- 
ment of idea, nicety of discrimination, chastity 
of expression, purity of style, perspicuity of dic- 
tion, simplicity of manners, or any of those quali- 
ties which constitute the beauty of language in 
general. These characteristics of elegant style, 
however, are those which are chiefly sought after 
and most generally acquired by elegant and polish- 
ed writers ; for that which we are most eager and 
solicitious of obtaining is generally that which we 
are most certain of acquiring. In proportion, how- 
ever, as we refine and polish our style, and attain those 
attic graces, and that elegance of taste which enti- 
tle us to rank among classical writers, we frequent- 
ly lose that energy, that vigour, that enthusiasm, 
that rapidity, that vivida vis animi, that " soul of 
soul/' which is the very essence and quintessence, 
and life and spirit, of the tragic muse ; and with- 
out which no tragedy ever imparted that pleasure 
which has been the subject of our inquiry. He 



330 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

who dwells too long in analyzing and scrutinizing 
the propriety of every thing he says, loses in strength 
and energy of sentiment what he gains in purity 
and accuracy of expression. While the head is at 
work in purifying our language and arranging our 
thoughts, the heart and its operations shrink from 
a task totally opposite to their nature, and subside 
insensibly into a dead calm. The moment this 
calm takes place, the tragic writer has no longer 
any source whence he can draw his portraits and 
delineations of human nature, but the faint recol- 
lections of former and half-forgotton feelings, or 
the suggestions of fancy and imagination. Imagi- 
nation, however, supplies us only with images that 
are fit to amuse itself. A writer of imagination 
pleases only the imagination of his readers ; the 
writer of feeling alone can reach the heart, and 
raise into being all the slumbering and latent 
faculties, energies, and sympathies of our nature. 
Hence it is that in all countries, the most polished 
and elegant writers have had least success in writing 
for the stage. Racine was, perhaps, the most cor- 
rect writer that France ever produced, not except- 
ing Voltaire himself, but as a dramatic writer he 
is greatly inferior to Corneille. Yet Corneille had 
neither the grace, the elegance, the delicacy of 
expression, nor beauty of versification which charac- 
terize Racine. To what then does Corneille owe 
his superiority if not to that fire and animation 



THE SOURCE OP TRAGIC PLEASURE. 331 

which was not suffered to grow cool in the act of 
composition. He suffered not his imagination to 
go in pursuit of far-fetched associations, or linger 
in the council-room of the understanding to dis- 
cuss which of many terms was the most elegant 
and refined. He did not, like Racine, turn his 
object round about and view it in all directions 
before he ventured to describe it, but seized on it 
under the first aspect that presented itself to his 
view. He described accordingly the impression 
which it made upon him vividly and warmly, but 
Racine suffered the impression to die away while 
he was considering the aspect in which he should 
represent it to the audience. Elegance, dress, 
adornment, and polish, is therefore the very bane 
of that energy and native strength of diction which 
alone can rouse into life and being those strong 
sensations, emotions, and passions, to which tragic 
pleasure owes its existence. It is not necessary to 
recur to the French stage to prove this truth. As 
Corneille surpassed Racine, so did Shakspeare pre- 
cede all the dramatic writers of his country, at 
least all whose names are worthy of notice. But 
Shakspeare precedes them not only in order of time, 
but in order of dramatic genius. Voltaire calls him 
a savage ; but he was a savage which the refined 
Voltaire himself could never equal. He was no doubt 
a savage — a total stranger to the lighter charms 
and graces of classic elegance and refinement, 



332 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

but such charms and graces are fit only to amuse 
the imagination, for there never was an instance 
of any tragedy succeeding of which those lighter 
charms and graces formed the principal character. 

These 1 igh t-wi nged graces and embell ishments are 
all the offspring of art : they are a species of machi- 
nery devised and constructed by the co-operation 
of the understanding and imagination ; but the 
expression of real and undisguised feeling, or the un- 
folding of feeling exactly as it is felt, has no alliance 
whatever with art : it is the work of nature and its 
charms are the charms of nature. It is difficult how- 
ever for him who is chiefly solicitous about the form 
of his expression to attain to these charms, because 
the understanding and the heart can never be 
brought into action at the same moment, without 
weakening each other. He who is all life and feel- 
ing, and passion, has no time to exercise, or rather 
never thinks of exercising his understanding, but 
writes what his feelings and passions inspire ; but 
he who loves to consult his understanding alone, 
and pays no attention to his feelings, has neither 
feeling nor passion to give inspiration to his muse. 

The critics of the present day are greatly per- 
plexed in seeking to account for the barrenness and 
poverty of our dramatic productions. The author 
of " a Letter to the Dramatists of the Day," which 
appeared lately in the London Magazine, has many 
good observations on the subject, but though his 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 383 

letter is a pretty long one, and runs through more 
than one number of the Magazine, all the precepts 
he lays down to regulate the conduct of drama- 
tic writers may be rigidly followed, and yet fail 
of producing that interest, and of imparting that 
pleasure, which is sought for on the stage, and 
without producing which no tragedy ever succeed- 
ed. The critic who lays down a just principle 
without knowing why it is just, and, consequently, 
without being able to assign a reason for it, tends 
frequently to lead his followers astray instead of 
withdrawing them from their errors ; for what we 
call true principles in criticism are all, without 
an individual exception, false principles, if im- 
properly applied : they are only true in their right 
place. Hence it is, that when we point out an 
error in the productions of an ignorant writer, and 
lay down the principle by which we prove it to be 
wrong, he adopts this principle afterwards as a 
guide ; not only in similar cases, but in cases where 
it has no application, and where consequently it 
becomes as erroneous as the principles by which 
he was originally guided. Hence it is that writers 
who cannot perceive when they ought to be guided 
by a principle, and when they ought to avoid it, 
are always sailing between Scylla and Charybdis, 
always either in the frying pan or in the fire ; for 
as Horace observes, 

Dum vitant stuhi vitia in contraria currunt. 



334 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

It is impossible, however, for any writer to know 
whether a principle be applicable to him or not, 
unless he know out of what the truth of the prin- 
ciple arises ; and as the author of the letter just 
alluded to is very evidently ignorant of the true 
source of Tragic Pleasure, all the precepts he lays 
down, though true in themselves, are of no use 
to the dramatic writer, because he does not explain 
when and where they are true, when and where 
they are applicable, and why they are applicable. 
One of the reasons he assigns for the superiority 
of our ancient over our modern dramatic writers, 
is, that their plots were more interesting. This is a 
mere woman's reason. To what purpose is the 
dramatist told that his piece can have no success 
unless he has an interesting plot, unless he is told, 
at the same time, what renders a plot interesting. 
Who is so stupid as not to know that his plot should 
be interesting if he knew how to render it so : and 
who does not endeavour to render it so as much as 
he can ? To say then that the plot should be in- 
teresting is to say nothing ; and to say that the 
ancients were superior to the moderns, because 
their plots were more interesting, is only saying they 
were superior because they were superior, which 
is, as I have already observed, a woman's reason. 
But if this gentleman, who, by the bye, treats the 
poor dramatists very cavalierly, were asked what 
renders a plot interesting, what constitutes the 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 335 

elements of an interesting plot, and in what man- 
ner should these elements be brought together and 
disposed of, he would find himself as nonplussed as 
the dramatists, for out of the same elements, in- 
cidents, sentiments, situations, &c. some millions 
of plots could be formed all totally different from 
each other, and yet all of them interesting, all of 
them natural. But how is all this to be effected 
unless by bringing the various constituent ingre- 
dients or elements together in a different manner? 
Now, if Mr. Lacy, the writer of this letter, could 
point out how they could be brought together in 
so many millions of ways, and form so many mil- 
lions of plots, all interesting and natural, the 
dramatists would have good reason to thank him ; 
but when he says to them, go to, you race of dunces, 
who cannot perceive that the sole cause of your 
failure consists in not making your plots interest- 
ing enough, they may very justly turn round upon 
him and say, who could have thought of telling 
us so but such a dunce as yourself? We know a 
great part at least of our failure consists in not 
having succeeded in giving our plots sufficient in- 
terest ; but unless you can instruct us how to do 
so, how much wiser are you than ourselves ? It is 
absurd to lay down, or pretend to lay down, rules 
to govern the dramatic writer, so far as regards the 
harmony that exists between all the parts of his 
composition, for as some millions of interest- 



336 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

ing tragedies may be formed out of a few elements, 
so also may some millions of false, uninteresting 
ones. Each of these tragedies, however, is to be 
governed by laws and principles peculiar to itself ; 
and the critic must certainly have more presump- 
tion than understanding who would legislate to 
dramatists, and point out to them all these laws 
and principles before these millions of tragedies 
were composed, as each of them should have laws 
peculiar to itself. The fact is, that all the laws, 
canons, and principles of criticism that have ever 
been promulgated, owe their existence to the works 
on which they were originally founded ; and it is a 
fact equally certain, that they can have no appli- 
cation to works of a different nature, except in 
those points wherein they agree with each other. 
Hence, if any writer commenced an original work, 
original not only in its design, but in its manner 
and execution, he should be governed by principles 
that were never heard of before, because the 
subject was different from any that was ever handled 
before. It is in the nature of every subject to create 
laws for itself ; for if it were governed by the laws 
and principles of any other subject, it would, in- 
stead of being an original subject, be a mere copy 
of that subject by whose laws it was governed. To 
suppose that there are fixed laws and principles to 
which all subjects must conform, is to suppose 
that there are certain fixed qualities without which 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 337 

no woman, no statue, no painting, no any thing 
can be beautiful. Now if there be such qualities 
Ishould wish to know what they are. Critics and 
philosophers, it is true, have racked their brains 
in search of them, but have they ever found them ? 
have any two of them agreed as to the common 
quality or qualities which constitute beauty ? Du- 
gald Stewart places them in colour, form, and 
motion, but in doing so is he not even more ab- 
surd than Mr. Lacy, the author of the letter on 
which I am now commenting. To what purpose 
are we told that beauty consists in colour, form, 
and motion, unless we are told what particular 
colour, what particular form, and what particular 
motion constitute beauty? The most deformed 
animal in the creation has colour and form ; and 
as to motion, Mr. Stewart himself must acknow- 
ledge it is not an essential ingredient in beauty, 
for there are millions of objects which all men will 
pronounce beautiful, and yet they have no motion 
whatever, unless they receive it from some external 
impulse. The Apollo of Belvidere has no motion 
in itself, and yet all men acknowledge it a beauti- 
ful statue. If then we confine beauty to colour 
and form, a Hottentot female, with her " head 
coming first and her tail coming after," is a 
beautiful woman, for she has colour and form. 
In fact, if colour and form constitute beautv, all 



338 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

objects are beautiful, for all objects have colour 
and form. Professor Stewart's theory of beauty- 
is, therefore, perfectly chimerical, and so are all 
the other theories that have ever been formed on 
the subject, which I could prove as absurd as Mr. 
Stewart's, if the nature of my subject permitted 
me to enter into the question. A painting maybe 
beautiful, and a horse may be beautiful, but wherein 
does a horse resemble a painting* ? If then we can 
lay down no fixed principles that constitute beauty, 
why pretend to lay down fixed principles by which 
a writer is to be guided whatever be his subject. 
Hence it is, that a thousand, a million, nay millions 
of tragedies may all be interesting and beautiful, 
ancl yet all different from each other, and governed 
by laws peculiar to themselves. To say then that 
modern tragedies are unsuccessful because their 
plots are not interesting, is equivalent to saying a 
woman is not beautiful because she is ugly. If 
the writer of this letter, ho we ver, perceived, that the 
interest of a plot consisted in its being adapted to 
excite strong sensations, emotions, or passions, he 
would have given the gentlemen to whom he ad- 
dressed himself a clue to the production of an 
interesting plot ; because they would perceive that 
however ingenious they were in devising it, how- 
ever skilfully and intricately it was composed, it 
still had no chance of succeeding on the stage, 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 339 

unless it was calculated to excite those stronger 
affections of the mind in the excitement of which 
Tragic Pleasure can alone consist. 

Mr. Lacy very justly observes, that a tragedy 
may be interesting without poetic ornament or 
embellishment, and uninteresting, however highly 
adorned by imagery, elegance of diction, and other 
attributes merely poetical ; but what avails it to 
know that tragic interest does not consist in 
these qualities of writing without knowing in what 
it consists. This, however, Mr. Lacy imagines 
he has discovered when he informs the dramatist 
that the first grand leading essential attribute of 
drama, whereby it is distinguished from all other 
species of literature, and without which it is not 
what it professes to be, is action. It is difficult to 
conceive how action can be considered a species of 
literature, ov in other words, how that part of the 
drama which consists of action can be considered 
a species of literature. But Mr. Lacy himself 
puts an irrefutable objection to his own theory 
into the mouths of the dramatists, which I shall 
first quote, and afterwards bring another objection 
against it myself, which I am of opinion will com- 
pletely set his theory at rest. 

"My belief deceives me, say you?" (he makes the 
dramatists speak,) however impalpable our plots 
may be, however unattractive, insubstantial, and 
delible our stories, still our plots are plots, our 

z2 



340 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

stories are stories, and being carried on or related 
by the several characters prefixed to our tragedies, 
under the denomination of dramatis personce, con- 
stitute the action of our pieces ; * now, infidel, we 
have thee on the hip.' " 

To these objections to his own theory Mr. Lacy re- 
plies in his own peculiar and swaggering manner, 
" Soft you ; a word or two before you go. What 
are we speaking of, gentlemen defendants ? Drama? 
No. Tragedy ? No. But of legitimate drama, 
effective tragedy." Bravo, Mr. Lacy, if effec- 
tive words have any effect, you are completely in 
the right box. But, to be serious, Mr. Lacy then 
proceeds to shew that their tragedies are not effec- 
tive ones. But what has all this to do with 
the objection of the dramatists to his theory of 
action. They say, we have plots and stories which 
are carried on by the dramatis personce, and, there- 
fore, we have action. If then action alone renders 
a tragedy interesting, ours should be interesting? 
and their want of interest proves that something 
else is required to confer interest on dramatic works. 
Mr. Lacy endeavours to get over this unanswer- 
able objection by saying, we are not talking of the 
drama, nor of tragedy, but of legitimate drama, effec- 
tive tragedy. Softly, Mr. Lacy, you are not talk- 
ing of either. The question regards not the drama, 
nor tragedy, nor legitimate drama, nor effective 
tragedy : you are talking of action, Mr. Lacy, and 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 341 

your business is to prove that the whole interest of 
dramatic works arises from action. Because you 
maintain that the failure of modern tragedies arises 
from want of action. But how is this proved by 
shewing that their tragedies are not effective. This 
is mere matter of fact, not matter of reason- 
ing ; but your business was to show, not that 
their tragedies were not effective, but that the 
want of action was the cause of their not being 
effective. The matter at issue between you and 
the dramatists is this: — you say their tragedies 
fail for want of action, — they say, no ; — our 
tragedies have action. Not being able to prove 
the contrary, you say, we are not talking of 
tragedy but of effective tragedy ; and because their 
tragedies are not effective their argument does not 
apply. It happens, however, that you are talking 
of neither. A ction is your subject. But, say you, 
Hamlet, Lear, Macbeth, or Othello, is superior to 
all their tragedies " on the sole ground of action." 
Indeed ! And pray, Mr. Lacy, who told you so ? 
This is a mere assertion of your own, and assertions 
require proofs. Who knows but their superiority 
arises from some other cause? That action is not the 
sole cause is evident, for all our modern tragedies 
have action as well as those of Shakspeare. Sup- 
posing I were to say, that Shakspeare's plays were 
superior to our modern ones, because they awaken 
stronger sensations, emotions, and passions, in the 



34*2 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

human breast ; might I not be as near the truth as 
you are ? If you ask my proofs, I have given 
them already. But you will reply, no doubt, that 
sensations are produced by action. This cannot 
be, for if they were, our modern tragedies would 
produce them. But the action, you say, should 
be perpetual. I say no, and I say, also, that 
whether the action be perpetual or not, it is at no 
time the action, but the nature of the action, that 
creates the interest ; and without knowing what 
this nature is, we may preach to eternity about 
action, and leave our readers as wise as they were 
at setting out. Who has more action than he who 
talks most vehemently? and what can be less 
pleasing than this action, unless it arise from 
strong and powerful emotions. To say that the 
action should be perpetual, is to maintain the 
wildest and most senseless of all theories. There 
must be proper pauses between those parts which 
most strongly affect the mind; for if no such 
pause were granted, if the interest continued in- 
creasing without a moment's intermission, the 
consequence would be, that every individual would, 
in a very short time, be so overpowered by his feel- 
ings that he would either abandon the theatre to re- 
lieve the intensity of his emotions, (for the extreme 
of pleasure is always painful,) or otherwise, by 
arming himself against his own feelings, and sub- 
duing them by force, he would remain insensible 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 343 

to the most affecting scenes that could afterwards 
be represented on the stage. The sensitive soul is 
so formed by nature that it always relieves itself 
in some manner, which frequently leads it to run 
suddenly from one extreme to another. Hence it 
frequently passes from the extreme of pity to 
that of indifference. Mr. Lacy is an enemy to 
speechification, because it causes a cessation of ac- 
tion, but some of the finest and most affecting scenes 
in tragedy are to be met with in speeches, par- 
ticularly in love speeches. Whoever would reject 
that inimitable scene in the third act of Romeo and 
Juliet ; in which Juliet endeavours to make Romeo 
believe that it is not yet day; whoever, I say, would 
reject this scene because it makes a pause in the 
action, possesses certainly no very enviable taste. 
The fact is, that all those things which Mr. Lacy 
finds fault with, are all right in their right place, 
and all right things are wrong when out of their 
place. 

But if action be truly the real source of tragic 
interest, what need is there of good performers or 
good tragic writers ? Any person who is quick 
enough upon his legs can display as much action 
as Kean or Kemble, but would any nimble 
person be able to give the same interest to his 
action. But Mr. Lacy will reply, every body 
knows that the action of an indifferent performer 
cannot please, however full of action he may 



344 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

be : but if every body knows it, why labour to 
prove what every body knows to be wrong? If 
then mere action will not please by itself, it is a 
mere accident accompanying the real cause of 
Tragic Pleasure. But if we are ignorant of this 
real cause, to what purpose are we made acquainted 
with the accident ? Will Mr. Lacy pretend to say, 
that whoever is made acquainted with the accident 
must necessarily be acquainted with the cause ? If 
he does he will find himself greatly in error. We 
all know that pleasure may be communicated 
through the medium of action, but we know also 
that every species and mode of action will not 
impart this pleasure. And to hit upon that par- 
ticular mode which is most effective and natural, 
so far from being known to every person, is known 
to very few. It is the study of a man's life, nor 
can even this study acquire it without natural 
genius. To know, then, what particular action 
pleases, hie labor } hoc opus est. What avails it there- 
fore to dwell on the necessity of action, for we may 
be acquainted with this necessity and still be as in- 
capable of producing tragic interest as if we knew 
nothing about it. Mr. Lacy accordingly advises the 
dramatists of the day to fill up their tragedies with 
action, if I mistake not, to little purpose, for a play 
may be ever so full of action and active scenes, and 
impart no pleasure whatever. Shakspeare advises 
to " suit the action to the word, and the word to 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 345 

the action ;" but unless both be suited to the senti- 
ments, circumstances, situations, feelings, sympa- 
thies, and emotions, from which they are supposed 
to arise, and also to that infinite variety of influences 
which arise from the union, contrast, and opposi- 
tion of these sentiments, circumstances, situations, 
&c, neither the word nor the action, however well 
suited they may be to each other, will ever impart 
that interest from which Tragic Pleasure arises. I 
shall take my leave of Mr. Lacy by concluding, 
that a rapid succession of events will never impart 
Tragic Pleasure, unless each event be interesting in 
itself, and arise naturally from those which pre- 
ceded it ; and that the art of conferring this in- 
terest upon, and preserving this harmony between, 
all the events, is an art of which we may be totally 
ignorant, however well aware we may be that such 
a succession of events is necessary. 

But while I thus shew that however well the 
dramatists of the day may be acquainted with the 
necessity, if not of perpetual action, at least of an 
approach to it, they might still be as far from 
knowing the true secret of producing Tragic 
Pleasure, as if they were perfectly ignorant of it ; 
I may be required to assign a better reason my- 
self for the failure of modern tragedies, if I know 
a better. Mr. Lacy may say to me, 

■ Si quid novisti rectius istis 

Candidus imperti ; si non, his utere mecum. 



346 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

The demand is just and I shall endeavour to com- 
ply with it. 

Some writers attribute the failure of modern 
tragedies to " the introduction of French rules, 
both in criticism and composition." These rules, 
they say, " gradually changed " the " aspect" of the 
drama, " and brought along with it a taste for the 
principles and structure of the Greek tragedy, on 
which the French is founded, and which indeed it 
very closely resembles."* But to this explanation 
two objections very obviously present themselves ; 
first, why should the introduction of French rules 
produce the effect ascribed to it ; for if our 
dramatic performers happened instead of deterio- 
rating to be greatly improved, when these rules 
were introduced, the improvement might be ac- 
counted for in the same manner ; and instead of 
saying, that French rules corrupted our taste for 
dramatic compositions, the reviewer might say, 
that the improvement which took place at the 
time, was entirely owing to the introduction of 
these rules. It avails nothing then to say that 
French rules corrupted our drama, unless a reason 
be assigned, shewing that French rules are calcu- 
lated to produce such an effect. The second objec- 
tion to the cause to which the reviewer ascribes 

* Quarterly Review, vol. 1 7, Article, Shell's Apostate. 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 347 

the failure of our late tragedies is, that if he even 
assigned a reason we should look upon it with 
great suspicion, for if it were a good reason, why 
not produce the same effect in France. French 
rules are surely followed more by French than by 
English dramatists ; and if there beany thing in the 
nature of those rules calculated to destroy the in- 
terest of dramatic compositions, the more they 
are followed the more the interest is destroyed. 
The French, however, do not complain as we do ; 
though if the reason ascribed by the reviewer were 
a good one, they would have much greater reason 
for complaint, unless it can be shewn that they 
are differently constituted from us, and are conse- 
quently differently affected by the same influences. 
That their habits and manners are different I am 
very ready to admit, but that they differ from us 
in the original passions and propensities of human 
nature, no man can assert without publishing, at 
the same time, his own ignorance of human nature, 
and of the history of the human species. In 
all countries, and in all ages, these passions and 
propensities are the same. They are as immutable 
as nature itself, while habits and manners are 
eternally presenting a new aspect. The delinea- 
tion of habits and manners, however, is not the 
object of tragedy. It is entirely conversant in dis- 
closing and pourtraying the original sympathies 
and affections of the heart, and leaves habits and 



348 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

manners to the airy pencil of the Comic muse. 
Accordingly, France, England, and all countries 
differ materially in their comedies, because in 
all countries comic writers find the manners and 
habits of the country in which they live, the most 
fertile source of comic wit. Hence it is that in 
all countries comic writers choose the time in 
which they live for the scene of their comedies ; 
whereas the scene of a tragedy is always, or, at 
least, should always be placed in remoter times. 
If the scenes of a comedy were placed in a former 
age, the writer could not describe the manners of that 
age ; and if he were even acquainted with them 
and succeeded happily in turning them into ridicule, 
his wit would be lost upon his audience, because 
they could not perceive the force of it without being 
themselves familiar with the manners which it ridi- 
culed or exposed. It is different with tragedy, for in 
all ages human passion is the same, and, therefore, 
a scene laid three hundred years ago, can describe 
no other passions than those which exist at present. 
Whatever, then, has led to the deterioration of 
English tragedy, would produce the same effect in 
any other country; and as the cause to which the 
reviewer ascribes it, operated more in France than 
here, the effect which he also ascribes to it would 
be more striking there, and the want of interest in 
French would be still greater than in English 
tragedies. 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 349 

The insipidity which we do so much complain 
of in modern English tragedies, appears to me to 
arise from one cause, and our complaint of them 
from two, namely, frpm the cause that virtually 
renders them insipid, and which I shall presently 
endeavour to explain, and from a disposition in 
those who affect to be critical judges in the mat- 
ter, to make our best tragedies appear worse than 
they are. A critic never obtains so much credit 
by praise as by censure, because, when he points 
out the beauties of any composition, he only de- 
scribes what is actually placed before him : he 
only calls things by their proper names, and we 
read him under an impression that the author on 
whom he comments is greatly his superior, be- 
cause he himself acknowledges his merits, in 
pointing out his beauties ; and as we seldom praise 
those of whom we form no higher opinion than of 
ourselves, we are always inclined to suspect that 
the person praised is a greater man than he who 
praises him. But the critic who finds fault pro- 
claims himself at once a greater man than he 
whom he censures, for he virtually says, I would 
not commit such a blunder as this, I would treat 
the matter differently ; and yet it is certain that a 
more exquisite discrimination and a more cultiva- 
ted taste are necessary to perceive what is beauti- 
ful than to expose what is vicious and imperfect. 



350 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

We have little difficulty in describing a deformed 
man so as to make any person acquainted with him 
know who is meant by the description, but where 
there is nothing* marked in the countenance, such 
a description would be found very difficult, and the 
difficulty increases as the face approaches to perfect 
beauty. The critics, however, or those who are pro- 
fessedly so, are not the only people who complain of 
the insipidity of our modern tragedies, though they 
are perhaps the original cause of ail the complaint, 
for whatever they say is reported over and over 
again by those who affect to be as wise as them- 
selves. The old tragedies have no complaints of 
this kind to apprehend. Their character and dif- 
ferent degrees of merit are long since fixed and 
established, and the critic finding how difficult it 
is to remove fixed opinions and impressions long 
entertained, finds it more prudent to say nothing 
about them. 

That there is, however, in the generality of our 
modern tragedies a real insipidity cannot be doubt- 
ed, and this insipidity appears to me owing to their 
not producing those strong sensations, emotions, 
and passions, without which there can be no tragic 
interest. They appeal more to the understanding 
than to the heart : and in proportion as the under- 
standing is exercised, the heart and its sympathies 
not only remains, but are obliged to remain, dor- 



THE SOURCE OP TRAGIC PLEASURE. 351 

mant. But why, it will be asked, do modern 
writers appeal less to the feelings than the ancients? 
Is not human nature, and human passions, and 
human propensities, and natural genius, the same 
now as it was in the days of Shakspeare ? That 
human nature and human passions are the same I 
admit ; but it is in the very nature of human 
nature to be governed, modified, and determined 
by external circumstances. Now, if the circum- 
stances operating on the human mind at present 
be different from those by which it was influenced 
in the days of Shakspeare, it is natural the effect 
should be different. That the influences are different, 
at least with regard to writers, is a matter of fact 
too well known and too well authen ticated to require 
proof. To quote historic testimony to prove it, would 
be mere pedantry. In the days of Shakspeare the 
dramatist, or the dramatis personce, or more proper • 
ly, their representatives on the stage, addressed 
themselves to an audience who judged of every cir- 
cumstance, situation, and sentiment, by their feel- 
ings ; an audience whose judgment was not govern- 
ed by the squares and compasses of criticism, who 
were totally unacquainted with those factitious 
and acquired feelings, those unnatural impressions 
and unreal sympathies arising from ideal associa- 
tions, false reasoning, false deductions, false prin 
ciples, false theories of right and wrong, and all 



352 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

those gathering, collecting, and collected elements 
of error which always increase with the increase 
of knowledge. In the state of nature, all men are 
equally wise, because all men have but one and the 
same avenue to knowledge, — namely, the light of 
natural reason or common sense. Metaphysical, 
logical, and every other species of abstract learn- 
ing, is therefore unknown, and no person, unless, an 
impostor who professes to hold communication 
with a spirit, can pretend to be wiser than another, 
or at least so much wiser that his ipse dixit should 
be taken upon any question without hesitation or 
investigation. The consequence is, that as no 
person professes to knowledge, no person attempts 
to lead another astray by false principles, or false 
reasoning, because reason and its principles are 
equally unknown. Every man speaks as he feels, 
because he knows that even if his feelings and 
observations be wrong, he addresses himself to 
those who are incapable of setting him right. 
In the progress of civilization it continues for 
a considerable time to be the same, and it was 
nearly the same in the days of Shakspeare. He 
collected his knowledge of human nature, and 
of the human heart, not from books and prin- 
ciples of reasoning, but from mixing with the 
world, from becoming moulded in its ways, habi- 
tuated to its manners, versed in all the various 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 353 

modes of feeling which it experiences under vari- 
ous influences. He studied not from a copy but 
from the original. He viewed not man through 
books, through the picture given of him by others, 
but he viewed him as he found him. His tragedies, 
therefore, compared to ours, are like an original 
painting compared to a copy. It has the fresh- 
ness, richness, and raciness of nature. It partakes 
of the quality of the soil, which it describes, or, 
in other words, Shakspeare attributes to his cha- 
racters only those feelings which he knew he 
would feel himself were he placed in their situa- 
tion, while our modern tragedies describe not man 
as he is, but as he appears to be through the 
speculum of books. Hence they are a cold, bar- 
ren, and unhealthy offspring, incapable of excit- 
ing those strong sensations, emotions, and pas- 
sions, which is the soul and sole origin of Tragic 
Pleasure. 

The modern dramatist, compared to Shakspeare, 
stands exactly in the same situation with Virgil 
compared to Homer. Homer addressed himself 
to men who judged of right and wrong, of virtue 
and vice, of genius and stupidity, by their feelings 
alone. He had, therefore, no occasion to exercise 
his reason or analyzing faculties in composing his 
Iliad, because reason appeals only to reason. It 
addresses itself to the understanding not to the 
heart and its sensibilities, the passions and their 

Aa 



354 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

caprices. If the Iliad were, therefore, the offspring 
of reason and judgment, it is likely we should 
have never heard of it. Those for whom it was 
composed, and to whom it was repeated by the 
itinerant bards of the time, of which he was one 
himself, could endure only what was stripped of 
all intellectual disguise, and appealed to the feel- 
ings and passions at once. Homer had, therefore, 
only to write as he felt, for there can be no mystery 
in the expression of our feelings : they are not 
only understood but felt at the same moment ; but 
he who writes not what he feels to be true, but 
what he imagines to be true, what has no existence 
but what it derives from a certain process of 
reasoning which the writer happened to fall into, 
may write what is not only perfectly unintelligible, 
from the manner in which it is expressed, (for 
nothing requires greater art and method than to 
place complicated ideas and deductions drawn from 
remote and abstract sources, in a luminous order,) 
but what is perfectly erroneous, be it expressed 
how it may. Such a writer cannot be so sure of 
pleasing, or of rendering himself understood, as he 
who writes nothing but what the feelings and im- 
pulses of the moment suggest. The latter pleases 
all men ; he pleases those who judge only by their 
feelings, for the reasons already mentioned, and 
he pleases civilized society, because, though it is 
capable of appreciating works that are the result 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 355 

of judgment and abstract intellect, it cannot still 
divest itself of that common feeling which is born 
with man, and which never can be totally extin- 
guished, though education may serve to chasten, 
refine, and moderate its energies. 

Our reasoning faculties may be perfected, or, at 
least, advance to the utmost bounds of human in- 
telligence, but our original feelings and sympathies 
remain in a manner the same, and keep no pace 
with the progress of intellect. Hence the same 
agency produces the same feeling or passion in 
the poet that it produces in the peasant, because 
the one is as much the creature of feeling as the 
other ; but if we address their reasoning faculties, 
we find them very differently affected by the enun- 
ciation of the same truth. The latter, perhaps, 
is incapable of understanding it, and hardly ever 
perceives the principles on which its truth is 
founded. How different then must be his impres- 
sions from him who not only perfectly understands 
it, but understands also why it is true, and can 
trace its relations to a thousand other truths. It 
is obvious, then, that when we address ourselves 
to the understanding of the peasant, we must ad- 
dress him differently from the poet, who seizes our 
meaning at a glance. But if we would excite the 
same passion or emotion in them, we should ad- 
dress them both alike. What pleases or ruffles 
the temper of the one will please and ruffle the 

Aa2 



356 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

temper of the other. The appearance of a ghost 
will produce the same awful sensations in them. 
The dagger of the assassin just going to be plung- 
ed into its innocent victim, will excite the same 
horror and indignation in both. Whatever agency 
then is brought forward to excite the feelings will 
affect all men, the learned and the unlearned alike. 
Hence it is evident that the tragedy which pleases 
in one age will please in another, — will please in 
all ages, as neither the changes that take place in 
the expansion of intellect, nor the improvements 
made in the arts and sciences, tend to alter in the 
least the original passions of our nature. What- 
ever then pleased in the days of Shakspeare would 
please at present ; and whatever pleases at present 
would please in the days of Shakspeare, for the 
original passions of our nature are always the 
same. It is from an ignorance of this truth, or at 
least from a forgetfulness of it, that our modern 
dramatic writers have so miserably failed in tra- 
gedy. They seem to be of opinion that, as they 
address a more intelligent and enlightened audi- 
ence than those whom Shakspeare addressed, they 
should address them in a different manner, that 
their language should be highly polished, their 
sentiments highly poetic to please the taste of the 
age, forgetting that in tragedy there is no taste 
exercised whatever. When we are pleased or dis- 
pleased we are so because we cannot help it, and, 



THE SOURCE OP TRAGIC PLEASURE. 357 

therefore taste is out of the question. In tragedy, 
the most sparkling and brilliant sentence that ever 
was penned by a poet will produce no effect upon 
us, unless it describe some circumstance, or re- 
present some situation or image, calculated to 
make a strong impression upon us, and even then 
it does not serve in the least to heighten the effect 
which such a circumstance or situation would pro- 
duce, without the colouring of diction. On the 
contrary, it tends materially to lessen the effect by 
drawing our attention from the thing described to 
the glitter of words in which it is described. Be- 
sides, this glitter of words is so much at variance 
with all feelings of a deep and intense character, 
that it makes us suspect that the feelings and pas- 
sions described are all affected; knowing as we 
do, that passion is never studious of expression, 
never seeks to clothe itself in the light robes of 
poetic imagery. It is not, then, the mode of de- 
scribing, but the nature of the thing described, 
that creates tragic interest, but our modern 
tragic writers seem to place the whole efficacy 
in the form of expression ; while it is certain 
that whatever pleases in tragedy, will please, 
express it as you will, provided always that the 
language be natural and conformable to common 
usage. When Lear says to his daughters, 

Filial ingratitude ! 
Is it not as this mouth should tear this *>3nd 



358 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

For lifting food to it ? but I'll punish home. 
No — I will weep no more — in such a night 
To shut me out ! Pour on, I will endure. 
In such a night as this, O Regan, Gonerill, 
Your old kind father, whose frank heart gave all — 
Oh ! that way madness lies ; let me shun that j 
No more of that. 

We are evidently affected not by any peculiar 
happiness of expression, for it has neither grace 
nor elegance, (qualities which should be rather 
avoided than sought after in tragedy, as they make 
passion wear a gay, and, consequently, an un- 
natural appearance,) but by the feelings of indig- 
nation excited in us by that species of ingratitude 
which Lear describes. It is not the form of 
expression but the thing described that affects us, 
and pomp of expression serves only to weaken the 
effect. The most beautiful passages in Shakspeare 
are the most simply and unostentatiously express- 
ed, because their beauty consists not in the expres- 
sion, but in the scene or image pictured to the 
mind. 

What words can be more simple and less orna- 
mental than the following, and yet in this single line 
Lee shews the power of love more strongly than if it 
were encumbered with all the images that ever 
wantoned in the dreams of the poet, 

" Then he would talk ! Good gods how he would talk." 

In short, no tragedy will ever succeed where the 



THE SOURCE OP TRAGIC PLEASURE. 359 

language is elaborate and highly finished, for such 
language is always the language not of nature 
but of art. It requires a long apprenticeship to 
the art of writing and the elegancies of diction, 
whereas passion never stops a moment to study 
the beauties of expression, but always seizes in- 
stinctively those terms which are nearest at hand, 
and those are always what the passion or situa- 
tion of the moment suggests. Hence it is that 
rhyme is totally destructive of nature in tragedy, 
for who can be supposed capable of passion who 
has patience to stop until he finds words and mea- 
sures that jingle and harmonize with each other? 

Our modern dramatists fail, therefore, because 
they trust more to the virtue and efficacy of lan- 
guage than they ought ; because they do not per- 
ceive that the whole of Tragic Interest arises from 
the intensity of the scenes and situations which 
they place before us, not from describing them in 
flowery and poetic language, because they do not 
perceive that such language, so far from adding 
new interest to these scenes, only strips them of that 
deep interest which they are in themselves, inde- 
pendently of poetic colouring, fitted to excite, be- 
cause they address their audience as an enlighten- 1 
ed and cultivated assembly, who have too much 
taste to cherish any thing that is not impressed 
with the characters of grace and elegance, instead 
of addressing them as natural beings who, with all 



360 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

their intellectual refinement, cannot be moved to 
tears by any agency whatever, but what would call 
forth the same hallowed stream in the days of 
their youth, before science and the arts had polish- 
ed their manners, and given accuracy to their per- 
ceptions of truth and error, for the manners have 
no relation whatever with the deeper passions 
of the heart. The former are always changing, 
the latter never. Hence it is that the comic 
should be governed by different laws from the 
tragic writer ; for as manners are always changing, 
so should comedy always change along with them, 
having manners also for their object. But the 
laws governing the tragic writer are always the 
same, because the heart, and its original affections, 
are always the same. Comedy, however, resem- 
bles tragedy in one respect, namely, in not admit- 
ting elegance of diction, or of expression, except 
when it ridicules high life ; for wit loses its 
character, and is no longer wit, when it appears 
studied, and whatever is highly dressed out and 
ornamented has always this appearance. In all 
other respects it differs from tragedy. 

Tragic interest consists, therefore, in placing 
the characters in deep situations, and describing 
faithfully the passions and emotions which such 
situations are fitted to produce ; and as they pro- 
duce the same sensations and passions in all men, 
the tragedian should address his audience not as 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 361 

a refined and cultivated assembly, but as a body 
of men who will be influenced by no situation or 
passion but what is natural to them antecedent to 
the progress of civilization and science. During 
the representation of a deep tragedy all men are 
the same ; we are all natural beings, and moved 
only by natural influences. We are no longer mem- 
bers of polished society, no longer held in restraint 
by the forms and etiquette of courtly manners, or 
intellectual cultivation. We are no longer the 
creatures of art, but become once more the 
natural man, and live for the moment in the state 
of nature. Until our tragedians, therefore, cease 
to address us as critical judges of literary excel- 
lence and refined taste, who are more delighted 
with fine expressions and poetic imagery than with 
those deep situations which are calculated to affect 
us in a state of nature ; in a word, until they give 
us credit for being, during the representation, the 
mere children of nature, they can never hope to 
excite those sensations, emotions, and passions, 
from which Tragic Pleasure derives its sole exis- 
tence. This, however, they never do : in fact, they 
seem afraid of doing it. They write as if the 
audience came to criticise, not to be moved or 
affected by those powerful impulses of nature which, 
while we are men, we cannot resist whether we 
will or will not ; and when we cease to be men, 
and to be governed by those impulses which are 



362 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

not natural to man, we are no longer those beings to 
whom the tragic writer addresses himself. Let him 
then address us as men, not as cold critics, or half- 
animated stoics, and he will find us respond to all 
the deep and affecting scenes which he places be- 
fore us, provided they be natural and rise naturally 
from each other; provided he never justifies us in 
saying non sequitur. And the more nakedly and 
divested of the pomp of language he introduces 
these scenes, the more complete will be his triumph. 
If beauty of language and poetic ornaments can 
at all be admitted, they must find expression only 
from such of the characters as are not deeply in- 
terested in what is going forward. Perhaps in the 
opening scenes they may be natural in the mouths 
Of the principal characters before passion gets fast 
hold of them, before love and misfortune renders 
them insensible to all the lighter charms and 
elegancies of language. 

Itiswith the tragic actor as with the tragic writer. 
He should take nature only for his model. Those 
who are initiated into the mysteries of the art by 
precept and example, who are taught to imitate 
the mode of acting adopted by another, can never 
hope to arrive at any eminence in this difficult art. 
It is true that certain acquirements are necessary, 
and must become natural from habit, to him who 
would attempt to represent naturally the woes and 
misfortunes of others; among which may be men- 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGrC PLEASURE. 363 

tioned, that general knowledge of men and things, 
that acquaintance with good writers, which enables 
him to seize at once upon the meaning, force, 
and application of their sentiments, and those 
mechanical, or personal accomplishments which 
give grace and elegance to all the movements and 
attitudes of the body, as fencing, dancing, &c. 
These, however, being once acquired, practice alone 
can after render us perfect in dramatic action and 
expression, for the moment we attempt to follow 
another, closely and rigidly, our action necessarily 
becomes unnatural and constrained, simply be- 
cause, instead of acting as the situation in which 
we are placed naturally prompts us, we are think- 
ing only of doing our parts as we are taught to do 
it, which, in other words, is only doing it mecha- 
nically. It is only he who acts as the situation in 
which he is placed prompts him to act, that can 
possibly act naturally, and hence the cold, drawl- 
ing, whining, declamatory tone so frequent on the 
stage ; a tone which no person can mistake for the 
genuine and unpremeditated tone of nature, but 
he who imagines that whatever is usual must 
necessarily be right. It is impossible for any two 
to act exactly alike, and act naturally at the same 
time ; for as we all differ more or less in our 
natural tempers and dispositions, so are we more 
or less differently affected by the same circum- 
stances and situations. It is true that what makes 



364 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

one man angry will make another angry, if 
both yield to their natural passions, and suffer 
reason to exercise no influence over them, but it is 
equally true that this anger will operate on them 
differently, and that they will express it in a dif- 
ferent manner. In the prominent or leading cha- 
racteristics of passion they will both agree, but in 
all its lighter shades they will differ from each 
other, as much as their natural tempers differ 
from each other before they became ruffled by this 
momentary agitation ; and it is in giving a just 
expression to those lighter shades of passion that 
all finished excellence in acting consists. It is easy 
to affect being in a rage ; so easy, indeed, that the 
most senseless and mindless cartman or coach- 
man can affect it if he will, because the more 
striking qualities of the passion are easily taken 
off; but who can affect it with that very identical 
cast of countenance, and those very writhings and 
contortions of body which he would naturally 
assume, if he really felt what he describes. It is, 
however, only by assuming this very cast of coun- 
tenance, and these very contortions of body, that 
he can act naturally, or in his own natural manner; 
and he who has no manner of his own has no 
manner whatever, because in abandoning his own, 
in order to attain that of another, he loses both, 
for the lighter shades and indescribable expressions 
which passion assumes in some men, can never be 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 365 

imitated except by those who possess originally 
the same tempers and dispositions, of which there 
are few instances ; and, even in these few, the imi- 
tation is merely accidental. They imitate because 
they cannot help imitating, without acting con- 
trary to their natural dispositions : because their 
dispositions being naturally alike, they are ali k 
affected by similar influences and similar situa- 
tions ; and as similar affections lead to similar 
modes of external action, and give a similar cast 
to the expression of the countenance, they will 
appear on the theatre to imitate without any in- 
tention of doing so. Instruction may enable an actor 
to appear tolerable, but natural, unpremeditated 
acting can alone attain to excellence. Every man's 
manner is natural provided it be his own manner, 
nor can any man act a passion unnaturally if he 
be in earnest, if he feel that he is not imitating 
the action of another, but acting what his own 
feelings, emotions, and sympathies inspire. Hence 
a thousand actors may act differently and yet all 
act equally natural, so that nothing can be more 
fallacious than the opinion that there is only 
one mode of acting the same part properly, 
that, consequently, this mode alone should be 
adopted, and that whoever excels in it should be 
held as a model to all others. This is, in fact, sup- 
posing the actors to be ali machines, who have no 



366 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

feeling whatever of their own, no peculiar way of 
being affected by the situations in which they are 
placed. It is supposing that they are all cast in 
the same mould by the hand of nature, and all 
affected in the same identical degree by the same 
circumstances and situations. But is the suppo- 
sition true ? Who that ever heard an affecting story 
told in a small circle of friends, ever perceived any 
two affected alike ? It is true, indeed, they all felt 
a melting and subduing influence, an influence 
that drew them nearer the hapless victim of woe : 
but were they all melted in the same degree ? did 
all equally commiserate ? Did all enter equally 
deep into the feelings of the distressed object, and 
all grasp equally alike the associations and images 
of horror that flitted round his mind, clouding all 
the rays of hope that gleamed through the sad pros- 
pect that lay before him ? Yet, differently as they 
felt affected, they all felt naturally affected, because 
each felt the impression in exact proportion to his 
natural degree of sensibility, combined with his 
conception of the real state of the person described. 
But the diversity of modes in which they were 
affected could not be greater than the diversity of 
modes in which theyexpressed their feelings, as every 
mode of feeling assumes instinctively an expression 
of countenance peculiar to itself. If then all dra- 
matic excellence consists in a close imitation of 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 367 

nature', no two actors should act exactly alike, for 
we have here a group of natural actors who are all 
placed in the same situation, yet all act their part 
differently and naturally at the same time. But 
it may be asked, may not actors act alike, and 
express their feelings alike, when they are all placed 
in the same situation, and still act naturally ? I 
reply confidently they cannot ; and I would wish 
to call the attention of those gentlemen at the 
theatre, who endeavour to teach others to act 
like themselves, to attend to the arguments or 
reasoning by which I prove it, as it must convince 
them that all such acting is false and unnatural. 
Let any individual in this small group be supposed 
the most naturally affected among them, and let 
all the rest wish to appear just as much affected as 
he is, the consequence is, that those who possess 
less natural sensibility than he does, can never 
appear affected so deeply as he does, without 
forcing themselves into a passion of which they 
are incapable, and, consequently, without running 
into rant and fustian. We see at once that he 
who acts such a part as this acts a part that is not 
natural to him, that he affects a virtue which he 
does not feel. We see he is labouring to be pathe- 
tic, though it is not in his nature to be so. In- 
stead, therefore, of stopping at the exact point 
where he wishes to stop, of imitating his model 
exactly, he generally goes beyond him and tears 



368 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

the passion to rags ; for the moment a man 
is driven out of his proper element, and attempts 
to act what he is not qualified to act, he is set 
completely adrift, and, like a man hurried along by 
a tempest, he has not a leg- to stand upon. Had he 
continued to act that part which he acted be- 
fore he sought to imitate, he would not only act 
naturally, but, so perfect is the harmony that 
exists between natural passion and our sense of 
what is natural, that we should perceive instinc- 
tively the expression of his countenance to be nature 
itself. Hence it is obvious, that those who possess lit- 
tle sensibility always act unnaturally when they at- 
tempt to imitate those who possess more sensibility 
than themselves ; and not only that they always act 
naturally when they act in their own way, but 
also that we are pleased with such acting. I 
would be far from insinuating that an actor of 
little sensibility can ever attain to any eminence 
on the stage, whether he acts in his own peculiar 
way or attempts that of another; but I maintain 
that it is only by acting in his own way that he 
can attain all that eminence of which he is capa- 
ble ; for if he act otherwise he acts unnaturally, 
and if it be possible to act unnaturally and still 
attain to eminence, I have only to say that the 
public are no judges of good acting, and have no 
standard to be guided by if they abandon the 
golden standard of nature. In fact, though an 



THE SOURCE OP TRAGIC PLEASURE. 369 

actor can never rise to distinction without possess- 
ing that natural sensibility which responds to every 
influence, a sensibility which can neither be in- 
fused by instruction nor caught by imitation ; it is 
still possible for an actor of very unenviable 
talents to acquire more credit, and impart more 
pleasure to his auditors by following his own pecu- 
liar manner, than we could easily be made to be- 
lieve if the truth was not confirmed by experience. 
The instance of William Peer, related in the 
Guardian, is the only one I shall mention, because 
one instance is as good as a hundred, where it is 
confirmed by public feeling. It is thus related in 
the eighty second number of that work. 

" Mr\ William Peer, of the Theatre Royal, was 
an actor at the restoration, and took his theatrical 
degree with Better ton, Kynaston, and Harris. 
Though his station was humble he performed it 
well, and the common comparison between the 
stage and human life, which has been so often 
made, may well be brought out upon this occa- 
sion. It is no matter, say the moralists, whether 
you act a prince or a beggar, — the business is to do 
your part well. Mr. William Peer .distinguished 
himself particularly in two characters, which no 
man ever could touch but himself. One of them 
was the speaker of the prologue to the play which 
is contrived, in the tragedy of Hamlet, to awake 
the consciences of the guilty princes. Mr. Wil- 

Bb " 



370 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

liam Peer spoke that preface to the play with such 
an air, as represented that he was an actor, and 
with such an inferior manner as only acting an 
actor, as (that he) made the others on the stage 
appear real great persons and not representatives. 
This was a nicety in acting that none but the 
most subtle player could so much as conceive. I 
remember his speaking these words, in which 
there is no great merit but in the right adjustment 
of the air of the speaker, with universal applause. 

For us and for our tragedy, 
Here stooping to your clemency, 
We beg your hearing patiently. 

Hamlet says, very archly, upon the pronouncing 
of it, Is this a prologue or a poesy of a ring ? 
However, the speaking of it got Mr. Peer more re- 
putation than those who speak the length of a 
puritan's sermon every night will ever attain to. 
Besides this, Mr. Peer got great fame upon another 
little occasion. He played the apothecary in Caius 
Marius, as it is called by Otway, but Romeo and 
Juliet, as originally in Shakspeare. It will be neces- 
sary to recite more out of the play than he spoke, 
to have a right conception of what Peer did in it. 
Marius, weary of life, recollects means to be rid of 
it, after this manner : — 

I do remember an apothecary, 
That dwelt about this rendezvous of death : 
Meagre and very rueful were his looks, 
Sharp misery had worn hira to the bones. 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 371 

When this spectre of poverty appeared Marius ad- 
dresses him thus, 

I see thou art very poor, 

Though may'st do any thing j— here's fifty drachms, 

Get me a draught of what will soonest free 

A wretch from all his cares. 

When the apothecary objects that it is unlaw- 
ful, Marius urges, 

Art thou so base and full of wretchedness 
Yet fear' st to die ? Famine is in thy cheeks, 
Need and oppression stareth in thy eyes, 
Contempt and beggary hang upon thy back ; 
The world is not thy friend, nor the world's laws ; 
The world affords no law to make thee rich, — 
Then be not poor, but break it, and take this. 

Without all this quotation the reader could not 
have a just idea of the visage and manner which 
Peer assumed when, in the most lamentable tone 
imaginable, he consents, and delivering the poison 
like a man reduced to the drinking it himself if 
he did not vend it ; says to Marius, 

My poverty, but not my will, consents : 
Take this and drink it off, the work is done. 

It was an odd excellence and a very particular cir- 
cumstance this of Peer's, that his whole action of 
life depended upon speaking five lines better than 
any man else in the world. But this eminence 
lying in so narrow a compass, the governors of 
the theatre observing his talents to lie in a certain 
knowledge of propriety, and his person permitting 

Bb2 



372 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

him to shine only in the two above parts, his 
sphere of action was enlarged by the addition of 
the post of ■ property man.'" 

This circumstance in the life of Peer shews that 
minds of limited capacities are those which bene- 
fit least by the light of culture or the guidance of 
authority or precept. They see but a short way, 
and their feelings never stray beyond the horizon 
of their perceptions. Their homely feelings and 
perceptions may, therefore, be said to be better 
acquainted with each other than the more diversi- 
fied feelings and precept ions of a man of genius ; 
and this acquaintance produces so perfect a har- 
mony, or familiarity, between them that they both 
seem to be cast in the same mould; and we instinc- 
tively acknowledge the correctness of that taste 
which suits, even in little things, "the action to the 
word, and the word to the action." Hence it is, 
that men of narrow parts have always something 
more fixed in their character than men of enlarged 
and comprehensive minds. They have a certain 
manner of thinking and of feeling, from which 
they seldom deviate ; and the range of this com- 
merce between the passive and active powers be- 
ing so extremely limited, the same round of thought 
and feeling must frequently recur, and thus stamp 
a character for them, which is recognized after a 
very short acquaintance. 

Will it then be said that Peer could have sue- 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 373 

ceeded in this humble part better than he did, had 
he abandoned his own simple natural manner of 
acting and adopted that of some of his superiors ? 
If so, why could none of his superiors equal him in 
this humble part ? His excellence then evidently 
arose from his acting it in his own way. Had he 
followed another he could certainly do it no bet- 
ter than his original, which is saying, in other 
words, he could not perform it as well as he did, 
as none of his contemporaries could act it as well. 
But the fact is, he could not perform it even as 
well, for the reasons I have already mentioned. 
The person, then, whom I have selected from this 
little group cannot evidently improve his inferiors, 
because, by endeavouring to imitate him, they be- 
come ridiculous and unnatural, and it only re- 
mains to be ascertained whether he can improve 
those who possess more natural sensibility than 
himself, and who consequently enter more deeply 
into the feelings of the individual whose misfor- 
tunes are described. 

Those who possess little sensibility are naturally 
cool and steady, from which they possess the 
power of viewing attentively the actions and man- 
ners of others. This close attention enables them, 
in a great degree, to imitate the external attitude 
and movement of body, though they cannot com- 
municate to their attitudes and movements the 
same expression and feeling. A servant can bow 



374 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRV INTO 

like his master, and imitate all his actions, but he 
neither knows the proper time and place, nor, if 
he did, could he communicate to them that in- 
expressible grace, that silent eloquence which 
beam in the lustre of speaking eyes and an intel- 
ligent countenance. So far then as regards mere 
external attitude, a man of little soul and little 
feeling can imitate, however incapable he may be 
of that grace and elegance to which refined taste 
and feeling can alone attain. There is another 
reason why a person of little feeling succeeds in 
the imitation of action. Exclusive of that at- 
tention which his coolness and callousness enables 
him to pay to form, he is not prevented by any re- 
tiring and bashful modesty, by any nervous and 
tremulous sensibility of feeling, from imitating his 
original as well as he can. If he fail he is not 
put to the blush, and, in general, he knows not 
whether he fails or not, because natural insensibility 
of feeling renders us also insensible of our errors and 
mistakes. It gives to pedantry the air of wisdom, 
and confers on measured action and measured tones 
the characters of thought and judgment. He, there- 
fore, who has little sensibility of feeling may succeed 
in imitating the action, though not the expression,of 
those to whom nature has imparted it with a more 
liberal hand ; but the latter has no chance what- 
ever of imitating the former. The stoic may, by 
the influence of some powerful feeling, be occasion- 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 375 

ally warmed to rapture, but the enthusiast can by 
no means whatever place himself in the situation 
of the stoic. When I say by no means whatever, 
I mean by no sudden means. Even death cloth- 
ed in all its terrors cannot completely subdue and 
indurate an ardent mind. He may be terrified 
but he cannot be rendered insensible. He may 
affect insensibility; — he may look cool, grave, 
and religious, if some powerful cause obliges him 
to do so ; but this affectation can impose on no 
man who has any knowledge of human nature. A 
sensible mind cannot endure constraint ; it pants 
for its native liberty, and though it feels no desire 
to abuse it, it cannot endure the chains of ignoble 
servitude. We perceive instinctively the constraint 
which it is endeavouring to exercise over itself. 
It feels, instinctively, that it is debasing its own 
nature to assume the character and manners of a 
nature inferior to itself; while he who is conscious 
of his own inferiority, instead of feeling any con- 
scientious scruples in imitating superior natures, 
thinks it the greatest happiness if he can succeed 
in the imitation. He feels himself ennobled at the 
moment, for we cannot even imitate virtuous and 
generous emotions without feeling a portion of their 
influence. Some of the best feelings of human 
nature may sometimes be awakened in the breast 
of an evil man, but the good man cannot descend 
in a moment and feel like a villain — Nemo repente 



376 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

jit turpissimus. We are, therefore, so constituted 
by nature that refined and delicate feelings have 
an abhorrence to what is gross, while gross and 
hardened feelings never enjoy happier moments 
than when they are aroused by some momentary 
excitement, and become sensible of feelings which 
approximate them to more exalted and sensible 
natures. Hence, when any distressing scene is 
placed before us, or represented in description, as 
in the case which I have supposed, those who from 
natural insensibility of feeling are little affected, 
become strongly affected if they behold some in- 
dividual of a sensible and sympathetic mind melt- 
ed into tears by the same scene or relation. We 
are all, more or less, prone to sympathize with the 
sympathies of others, however insensible we may 
be by nature ; whereas those who are naturally 
tender and sympathetic, instead of throwing off 
their sympathies, instead of ceasing to feel for the 
victim of distress, because they perceive others un- 
moved by it, only become more and more strongly 
affected. It is, then, contrary to the nature of the 
human mind for a man to resign his feelings be- 
cause he sees others cool, whereas it is perfectly 
in accordance with our nature to be melted 
by the feelings of others, even though we cannot 
feel in the same degree. If those then who pos- 
sess little sensibility, in the group which I have 
supposed, could not succeed in imitating and be- 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 377 

comingas strongly affected as he whom I have made 
their model, it is obvious, from the reasons I have 
just assigned, that they would come nearer to him 
at least than those who possessed more natural sen- 
sibility than himself, because the natural progress 
is from little to great, not from great to little, sen- 
sibility. He who is overcome by grief and afflic- 
tion cannot endure the idea of moderating his 
woe. On the contrary, he indulges and caresses 
it, and would despise himself if he thought him- 
self capable of abandoning his sweet regrets, and 
becoming as cool and unconcerned as those around 
him. He looks upon them as cold, heartless, and 
callous beings, furnished indeed with the organs 
of sense, but organs that hold no intelligence with 
the understanding, no sympathy with the heart, 
or, more properly speaking, which have neither 
heart nor understanding to commune with them. 
If, then, it be less difficult to rouse us to mental 
energy, if it be more easy to excite than to con- 
geal our sympathies, if we be more capable of be- 
ing impressed with the feelings and emotions of 
others than of restraining the ardour of our own, 
and bringing them down to the coldness and in- 
difference of those who are incapable of the 
warmer and tenderer affections ; it is, consequent- 
ly, easier for him, who undertakes to instruct 
another in dramatic action and expression, to suc- 
ceed in disciplining and improving those who have 



378 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

less natural sensibility than himself, than those 
who tremble at every pore, and who feel without 
instruction all the affections and sympathies which 
the situations and circumstances in which they are 
placed are calculated to excite. He may succeed, 
in some degree, with the former, because he may 
awaken in them a portion of that feeling by which 
he is moved himself ; but the latter do not require 
to be roused, and as I have already shewn, they 
cannot be restrained without becoming unnatural. 
In fact, the ardent mind, the mind of quick sen- 
sibility, or at least its possessor, has an indelible 
contempt for him who would indurate that energy 
and flow of soul that enters into all the feelings 
of others, and sympathizes with all their sympa- 
thies, while the cold-hearted man, instead of 
contemning him whose affections and sympathies 
are warmer than his own, looks upon him, and has 
a secret consciousness that he is a being of an 
order superior to himself. If he cannot imitate 
him then, and feel like him, it is not because he 
contemns such feelings, but because he is totally 
incapable of them -, and, consequently, if he affect 
them, his action and expression is forced and un- 
natural. 

Hence it happens that those who are most capa- 
ble of excellence in some characters, have no 
chance whatever of succeeding in others, or of 
succeeding in any character of certain plays. Those 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 379 

who possess quick and sympathetic feelings can 
never act mechanically, can never, like the cold in- 
sensible man, affect to feel when there is nothing to 
move him. If he has, therefore, to act a part where 
deep passion is to be represented without a suffi- 
cient cause to excite this passion, the natural deli- 
cacy of his feelings revolt from the affectation of 
a passion which there is nothing to excite. Yet 
he knows the audience will have it so, and that he 
must either whine and moan, and shed artificial 
tears, or be damned for his coldness and want of 
passion. And yet his coldness and want of passion 
arises from having too much real feeling, a feeling 
that vibrates and responds to every influence, but 
revolts from that hypocrisy which melts into tears 
without any cause for sorrow. In attempting, 
therefore, to express himself in the sad accents of 
woe, he runs into rant and vociferation ; and, both 
in action and expression, he is equally unnatural, 
because he does violence to the honesty of his own 
nature. Give him cause to be moved and he will 
respond to its influence: give him no cause and you 
will find it dangerous to rely upon him. In such a 
case trust to the coldest feelings rather than to his. 
Judge not then of the dramatic powers of any actor 
by his success in a particular play, for if it be cold, 
barren, and void of interest, if it require of him 
to get into a passion without placing him in those 
deep and affecting situations which are calculated 



380 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

to excite passion, the more dramatic genius he 
possesses, or in other words, the more sensibility 
he possesses, the less can he excel. Of this we had 
a clear instance in Miss Kelly's Constance, in the 
Vespers of Palermo. This young lady is all soul 
and feeling, and until the quickness of her sen- 
sibilities are retarded by a long course of acting, 
she will never succeed in any character where a 
display of passion is required without any cause, 
or at least any sufficient cause to excite it. When 
I say without any cause, I am aware that our very 
worst writers of tragedy place their principal 
characters in very distressful situations ; and so 
far, it might be supposed, there is room for pas- 
sion ; but this supposition is erroneous. Whoever 
has the least idea of consistency, instead of sym- 
pathizing with him who is placed in a very dis- 
tressful situation, hisses him off the stage if he 
find him placed in it without necessity, or rather 
if he has not been driven into it either by the im- 
petuosity of his own passions, or by a natural and 
regular chain of events. Nor can we even then 
sympathize with him unless his language shews that 
he is himself strongly affected by the situation in 
which he is placed. If it be said that we are not to 
know whether he be or be not ; that our business 
is to sympathize with him when we find him in evil 
plight, I reply that sympathy is no matter of busi- 
ness, that it does not depend upon our will, and 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 381 

that no man can feel the emotion called sympa- 
thy, however desirous he may be to feel it, unless 
he possess from nature a tender and sensitive 
mind, and is acted upon at the moment by 
some agency or circumstance fitted to awaken it. 
I reply, also, that we cannot help knowing whether 
he be or be not affected by his situation. " Out 
of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh," 
and he who is strongly affected by his situation 
cannot help expressing himself in a language in- 
dicative of his feelings. If, then, the writer 
make him speak the affected language of passion, 
instead of pouring out his soul in the genuine, 
spontaneous effusions of passion itself, we cannot 
sympathize with his pretended griefs : we look 
upon him as a hypocrite unworthy our commise- 
ration. If, again, it should be objected that we 
should pity all men alike who are equally distress- 
ed, no matter how differently they may feel affect- 
ed by their situation, I reply, we should not. The 
man who is placed in a perilous situation, but has, 
at the same time, too much stubbornness of nerve, 
or too much natural insensibility to be affected by 
it, is not a subject fitted to excite our sympathy. 
If it be asked why, I reply, because he is himself 
incapable of sympathizing in the woes of others ; 
— because that callousness of feeling which 
renders him insensible to his own misfortunes, 
renders him also incapable of sympathizing or 



382 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

feeling for the misfortunes of others. Insensibility 
in distress is a barbarous virtue : it is the virtue 
of a savage, and savages alo ne are noted not 
only for possessing but for displaying it as a 
virtue. It is true that many make a boast of it 
in civilized countries ; but it should be recollected 
that there are savages in courts and colleges, 
while the fine thrill of generous sympathy frequent- 
ly warms the devoted breast of the savage Indian 
— savage as we are pleased to call him, but savage 
however in name, not in nature. 

If, then, the tragic writer places any of his 
characters in a very affecting situation, but still 
makes him speak a language which proves either 
that he is not affected by it, or only pretends to 
be, neither the audience nor the person who re- 
presents him on the stage, can sympathize in his 
distress ; and without such sympathy the actor of 
fine feeling must inevitably fail. Of this Miss 
Kelly's Constance, to which I alluded above, affords 
a signal proof. Notwithstanding the success that 
attended her Juliet, she is supposed to have failed 
in Constance. This is a mistake ; the failure was 
not her s but the author's. In her first appearance 
in the third scene, she and Raimond di Precida 
assume the character of lovers. But the history 
of their loves is totally concealed from us. The 
first time they were smitten with each other's 
affections, the manner in which the soft secret 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 388 

escaped them, all the little jealousies, sighs, and 
tears, that follow in the train of Cupid, are care- 
fully kept out of sight, and they are represented 
stark staring in love with each other all at once. 
Who can sympathize with such love ? who can, 
without a moment's preparation, enter into the 
feelings of two ardent lovers without knowing how 
or where they became attached to each other? 
If the audience cannot, neither can those who per- 
sonate their character. It is so contrary to nature 
not only to fall deeply in love in an instant, but 
still more to talk openly and undisguisedly of a 
passion formed so abruptly, that a delicate and 
sensible mind either shrinks from a task that does 
such violence to its nature, or if it attempt to 
accomplish it, runs, as I have already observed, 
into rant and extravagance. How natural is Miss 
Kelly in the character of Juliet, because there she 
is first introduced to Romeo, and neither of them 
openly declares their affection for the other, in the 
first interview. Their passion progressively and 
naturally increases, and so do also the sympathies 
of the audience. Without this natural progress 
and gradual disclosure of passion, the audience can 
never sympathize with it. If, then, it were possi- 
ble for Miss Kelly to affect and represent naturally 
a passion which it was impossible she could feel in 
a moment, yet to the audience this natural repre- 
sentation of passion would appear complete rant, 



384 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

because there is no shade or colouring of passion 
that ever swayed the human breast, or ever was 
represented on the stage, can affect an audience, 
unless it be so introduced as to make them feel it 
themselves. Without such a feeling every display 
of passion appears to the audience a mere farce, a 
burlesque, or caricature of nature. It matters 
not how natural the passion may be in itself, if 
the audience remain cool spectators of it ; because 
this coolness makes it appear to them perfectly 
unnatural. Miss Kelly, therefore, in representing 
the warm and devoted lover, appeared to the 
audience to go beyond all just bounds, and to be 
more in love than she ought to be, simply because 
they were themselves at the moment, as cold as 
stoics ; for instead of being warmed gradually to 
passion, they were required to fall in love at once, 
or rather to sympathize with a passion which, from 
its being so suddenly introduced, they had every 
reason to believe had no existence. It passed 
with them as mere cant and hypocrisy. Accord- 
ingly they begged leave to decline sympathizing 
with it. There is always reason in passion though 
it never reasons ; or, in other words, we can 
never work ourselves into passion by any act 
of our own will, without some circumstance 
capable of moving us to it, and the perception 
of this circumstance is the reason we yield to 
its influence. No man can become angry with 



THB SOURCE OP TRAGIC PLEASURE. 385 

another without a cause, let him wish it ever so 
much. There is therefore always some reason for 
it. Offer a man the wealth of the British empire 
for becoming angry with an innocent, good-natured 
man, who never offended any person, and he would 
find it impossible to enjoy the prize : there can be 
no anger where there is no provocation. It is so 
with all the other passions : not one of them 
depends on our will. No man ever fell in love by 
an act of the will. There must be some charm, 
either mental or personal in the object of our 
affections, or at least, we must fancy such ; and a 
fancied or ideal charm exercises as powerful, and 
frequently a more powerful spell over the heart 
than a real one. If then passion does not depend 
upon the will, if there must be always an exciting 
cause, and if no cause or agency can excite, that 
does not appear to be natural, and if it be un- 
natural to appear deeply in love in a moment, and 
still more so to avow it openly, how could the 
audience be affected by that open avowal of pas- 
sion which appears in the first interview between 
Raimond and Constance, admitting that Miss 
Kelly acted it naturally. But this is admitting 
an impossibility, for the same reason that prevent- 
ed the audience from sympathizing in such sud- 
denly avowed passion, prevented Miss Kelly also. 
The more alive she was to good acting, and to 
nature, the more difficult was it for her to represent 

Cc 



386 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

naturally what was unnatural in itself; for as I 
have just observed, passion does not depend upon 
our will, and unless the actor feel it, he can never 
represent it naturally. 

Perhaps it may be replied, that the dramatis 
per.sonce never feel at all, that they know the woes 
and griefs, and loves, and sad regrets, which they 
describe are all imaginary ; that there is, conse- 
quently, no real cause to affect them, and that 
their acting must, accordingly, be the pure result 
of art and study, of fixed and predetermined 
movements, attitudes, signs, gestures, and expres- 
sion. If this reason be good, I would ask, why 
is the audience affected? They are just as well 
convinced as the actors themselves, that all is mere 
imitation, that there' is no real distress endured, 
no real cause for passion or sympathy ; and yet they 
sympathize, and yet they are moved— r-nay, often 
moved to tears. If, then, the audience be moved 
by imaginary distress, why suppose the actors in- 
capable of being moved by it also. They are 
mere men and women, mere flesh and blood like 
ourselves, endowed with the same susceptibilities, 
capable of the same emotions, swayed, prompted, 
animated, deterred, encouraged, captivated, and 
enslaved by the same influences and agency ; or, 
if there be any difference, it is that they are more 
susceptible of these influences than we are, for it is 
only the person of quick sensibility that will ever 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 387 

succeed in depicting the woes and sympathies of 
others. That there is a great deal of art and 
study necessary in the minor, or mere mechanical 
departments of acting cannot be doubted, but the 
advantages arising from this study are merely 
those of conferring grace and elegance on every 
action and movement. Grace and elegance may be 
acquired by education, but the power of pourtray- 
ing the secret workings and emotions of the heart 
is " beyond the reach of art." Nature, and nature 
only can confer this power. It is the privilege of 
tender, sensible, and sympathetic minds who are 
moved by the slightest appearances of distress and 
pain. In comedy there is not a particle of sym- 
pathy required : on the contrary, the more sympa- 
thy, the greater is the danger of not succeeding in 
it. There is a virtue allied to sensibility which 
but ill sorts with the levity of the comic muse ; 
but as it is possible to be gay and playful, and 
witty without the sacrifice of any virtuous feeling, 
as there is " a time to laugh as well as a time to 
cry" — as we may jest at the foibles or mishaps 
of others, and yet so express our jest as to deprive 
it of every appearance of malignity, or insensi- 
bility, so it is also possible for a tender, sympathe- 
tic mind to excel in comedy where it is only play- 
ful and innocent. Tragedy, however, is the great 
field where the softer and sympathetic affections can 
display all their powers, if placed in deep andatfect- 

cc2 



388 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

ing situations, and left to express their deeper tones 
and expressions of sorrow in their own natural 
way; for the very attempt to imitate anotherc hills 
that keen sensibility which is the soul and inspirer 
of all good acting. In all imitation, except the 
imitation of nature, there is trick and art, and 
this very trick and art extinguish that feeling and 
passion which alone can lead to excellence in 
Tragic Representation. It is thought that the 
lady of whom I have just spoken, has benefitted 
little by the lessons she has received at Covent 
Garden ; and if she has received such lessons there 
can be little doubt of their evil effect, except 
where they are confined to the inferior or orna- 
mental parts of acting. But the expression of 
passion cannot be taught and appear natural at 
the same time. A studied, mechanical movement 
of the features is easily distinguished from the 
expression of nature, as might be frequently re- 
marked in the late Mr. Kemble. It is true that 
the passion of love throws all who are its victims 
into nearly the same attitude of body and expres* 
sion of countenance : " the head," as Mr. Burke 
describes it, " reclines something on one side, the 
eyelids are more closed than usual, and the eyes 
roll gently with an inclination to the object, the 
mouth is a little opened, and the breath drawn 
slowly, with now and then a low sigh, the whole 
body is composed, and the hands fall idly to the 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 389 

sides ;" but let any person who knows love only 
by name, pat himself into this position ; let him 
roll his eyes, half close his mouth, &c. and com- 
pare him with another who is not only in the same 
position, but who is actually in love, and you 
will instantly perceive how widely the works of 
art stand removed from those of nature. With- 
out feeling w r hat we describe, or being affected by 
it, we may roll our eyes to eternity, but will never 
appear like him whose eyes are rolled not design- 
edly but through the unconscious influence of 
passion. Miss Kelly, however, so far from having 
any thing studied or affected in her manners, ap- 
pears to me a much more natural describer of the 
softer passions and melting sympathies of the 
heart than Miss O'Neil. She does not possess, it 
is true, equal excellence in those parts where feel- 
ing and passion are not required, but this is only 
a stronger evidence of her dramatic genius ; for 
excellence in the unimpassioned parts is the result 
of art and long experience, and may be acquired 
by very inferior performers, whereas it is doubtful 
whether any great performer ever excelled in them. 
Who has ever surpassed Kean in displaying the 
stronger and more turbulent passions of the mind, 
and who fails more where there is neither passion 
nor emotion to inspire him. " It is singular," says 
the author of an essay on the dramatic genius of 
Kean, in Blackwood's Magazine, " that Mr. Kean, 



390 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

who has nearly banished the mock-heroic from our 
stage, should be the very person who at times 
exhibits the most of it. In fact, this is his grand 
fault. He frequently gives what is called the level 
speaking of a part, in a style that would not disgrace 
an amateur theatre or school-room. It is difficult 
to account for this. The practice itself is no 
doubt to be attributed to earlv habits ; but how 
it happens that he has not yet reformed it we are 
at a loss to guess. Give him something to do and 
he does it better than any one else could, but give 
him nothing, and he makes worse than nothing of 
it. There are parts of almost every one of his 
characters that he mouths even worse than ' many 
of our players do.' " 

These observations are true, but they leave the 
mind dissatisfied, as the critic acknowledges his 
inability to account for Kean's not being able to 
leform his early habits, or in other words, for his 
failure in those parts which require no passion. 
This appears to me easily accounted for. No man 
ever excelled in things of no importaace who was 
calculated for great things. The mind bent on 
the accomplishment of some great object, directs 
all its powers to its attainment. It keeps its eye 
continually fixed upon it, and overlooks all the 
petty insignificant objects which it meets in its 
course. These objects, however, are those which 
the niggard, unaspiring mind pays most attention 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 391 

to, for finding itself unable to grapple with things 
of greater magnitude, it withdraws from the at- 
tempt and directs all its little powers to the little 
objects which are placed within its reach. The 
mind which takes in an extensive prospect, and 
spurns the contracted views of short-sighted in- 
tellect, can never form so intimate an acquaintance 
with any individual object that moves within it, 
as he who confines his attention to a point. Hence 
all men of genius are found extremely deficient in 
little things. They carry no small change about 
them, and, therefore, appear simpletons in mat- 
ters with which little minds are intimately con- 
versant. He who excels in pourtraying the deeper 
and intenser passions, looks with perfect indiffer- 
ence on those intermediate and connecting parts 
which have neither value nor importance in them- 
selves, and serve only as links to bind the more 
interesting parts together. No man is a greater 
fool, or at least, at greater loss in chit-chat con- 
versation, than a man of genius, but introduce 
some important subject, and he glows with all the 
energies of inspired intellect. It is exactly with the 
tragic writer of genius as with the tragic actor : 
" give him nothing to do and he makes worse than 
nothing of it," or, to speak more plainly, he fails 
in those intermediate parts which are the mere 
links of the drama, — parts which have no interest 
in themselves, but which are still indispensable, 



392 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

as there ' ould be no unity of design or action 
without them. Who is more wretched than Shaks- 
peare in the parts to which I allude. If Shaks- 
peare, says Lord Kaimes, in his Elements of 
Criticism, " upon any occasion fall below himself, 
it is in those scenes where passion enters not : by 
endeavouring in that case to raise his dialogue above 
the style of ordinary conversation, he sometimes 
deviates into intricate thought and obscure expres- 
sion." As an instance of this observation Lord 
Kaimes quotes the following specimen, 

They clepeus drunkards, and with swinish phrase, 

Soil our addition ; and, indeed, it takes 

From our achievements, though performed at height, 

The pith and marrow of our attribute. 

So oft it chances in particular men, 

That for some vicious mole of nature in them, 

As in their birth (wherein they are not guilty, 

Since nature cannot choose his origin.) 

By the o'ergrowth of some complexion 

Oft breaking down the pales and forts of reason ; 

Or by some habit that too much o'erlevens 

The form of plausive manners $ that these men 

Carrying, I say, the stamp of one defect, 

(Being nature's livery or fortune's scar,) 

Their virtues, else be they as pure as grace, 

As infinite as man may undergo, 

Shall, in the general censure, take corruption 

From that particular fault. 

Hamlet, Act I. Scene 7. 

If Shakspeare, then, has failed in the secondary 
parts, where there was no room for passion, no 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 393 

agency to excite it, no wonder that Kean has failed 
also, and that in these parts he endeavours to 
substitute stage effect for nature. 

If, then, a great actor can only excel where 
great passion or emotion is excited, what greater 
proof can we need that the excitement of strong 
sensations, emotions, and passions, is the soul and 
origin of Tragic Pleasure. But this tumultuous 
agitation of mind must not be excited in a moment; 
the feelings of the audience must be gently and 
insensibly won to sympathy and passion, and 
whoever flatters himself with an opinion that he 
can rouse them in a moment, will find himself as 
much deceived as Mrs. Hemans, in her Vespers of 
Palermo. It is true, indeed, that the cold, heart- 
less monotony of Mrs. Bartley, — her drawling, 
whining, declamatory tone would be sufficient to 
damn any play; but it is equally true that no 
dramatic power could redeem it. What surprised 
me most was to find that notwithstanding her in? 
tolerable tameness, some critics seemed to think 
that she acquitted herself better than Miss Kelly. 
It is certain that no two could differ more ; but it 
is equally certain that whoever prefers the former 
has as much taste for dramatic representation as 
an ancient stoic. I would sooner trust to the 
frozen feelings of old Diogenes in his tub, than to 
such a critic. In the first place, Mrs. Bartley can- 
not excite the slightest sensation, emotion, or pas- 



394 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

sion in any of her auditors, without which it is 
idle to talk of Tragic Pleasure. Some may be 
ignorant enough to admire her formal strut and 
measured action, but whoever pretends to be 
pleased with her is either a hypocrite, or the dupe 
of his own imagination. Miss Kelly's only fault 
consisted in affecting to be a violent lover the 
moment she appeared on the stage, and the audi- 
ence, always true to nature, refused to sympathize 
with so sudden, and, consequently, so unnatural 
a passion. But what alternative remained for her ? 
The language of love was put into her mouth, 
and she must either reject it and frame a speech 
for herself, or suit her action and manner to the 
warmth of her diction. It is true, indeed, that 
she wants the tragic powers of Kean, — and that 
confidence in herself which can only be attained 
by long experience: she wants those daring 
energies and that madding riot of dramatic 
genius in which he so eminently excels ; but s u e 
exerts as great a power in her weakness, and 
exercises as absolute a dominion over the heart 
and its affections in her retiring and yielding sen- 
sibility, as he does in all his strength. He excites 
terror, she excites sympathy : these, according to 
Aristotle and the critics, are the legitimate objects 
of the drama. The countenance of Kean assumes, 
it is true, a great variety of expression, yet it has 
always more of a stern, obstinate, and command- 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 395 

ing, than of a tender and sympathetic character. 
Perhaps it may be thought, that this energy of 
soul is of a higher order than the softer and ten- 
derer affections. If this be so, it must depend on 
the meaning we attach to a mind of a high order, 
for it certainly is not of a more virtuous and 
endearing character, virtue itself being only ano- 
ther name for mildness, sweetness, goodness, and 
sensibility of mind. That this is a fact can be 
easily proved from the conduct of mankind in 
general. Who is it the world most esteems, the 
man/ of a strong, uncompromising, unbending 
spirit, or the man of fine and yielding sensibility ? 
to which of these characters would we entrust all 
the secrets of our heart ? Which of them would 
confer on our darker moments the sweetest repose ? 
Certainly no man acquainted with human nature 
will hesitate to say the latter. Burke justly 
observes, that u those virtues which cause admi- 
ration and are of the sublimer kind, produce ter- 
ror rather than love, such as fortitude, justice, 
wisdom, and the like. Never was any man amiable 
by force of these qualities. Those which engage 
our hearts, which impress us with a sense of loveli- 
ness, are the softer virtues \ — easiness of temper, 
compassion, kindness, and liberality, though cer- 
tainly those latter are of less immediate and 
momentous concern to society, and of less dignity. 
But it is for that reason that they are so amiable. 



396 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

The great virtues turn principally on dangers, 
punishments, and troubles, and are exercised 
rather in preventing the worst mischiefs than in 
dispensing favours ; and are, therefore, not lovely 
though highly venerable. It is rather the soft 
green of the soul on which we rest our eyes, that 
are fatigued with beholding more glaring objects. 

Perhaps this attachment to the softer virtues of 
humanity may be supposed to arise from the 
general weakness and frailties of human nature: 
perhaps it may be said, that we love those who are 
weak because we are weak ourselves — pares, it 
will be said, " cum paribus facile congregantur ; 
but who will trust to the truth of this assertion, 
when he finds that those very men whose virtues 
are of a stubborn and energetic character, find 
themselves less happy with men of their own 
stamp than with those who possess the weaker 
and softer virtues. They are called weak, how- 
ever, only because they assume that appearance, 
for in reality they arise from a real though secret 
greatness and strength of mind. On this subject 
I could say much, but all I could say would be 
little better than an echo of what Mr. Knight has 
said of it in his " Principles of Taste." I shall, 
therefore, rest the strength of my observations on 
the following extract from that work. 

" Neither is the yielding pliability of a mild 
and gentle temper to be considered as a mental 



THE SOURCE OP TRAGIC PLEASURE. 397 

weakness, though often called so : for, to comply 
or yield with ease, dignity, and propriety, requires 
more real energy of mind, than can be displayed 
in any stubbornness and obstinacy of resistance : 
since that sort of stubbornness or obstinacy, which 
rests upon no principle of reason, honour, or in- 
tegrity, is like the restiveness of a mule, nothing 
more than sullen stupidity. Hence fools are al- 
most always ill-tempered ; and generally sulky 
and obstinate; while persons of very enlarged 
minds, and very vigorous understandings, are, as 
generally, good-tempered and compliant." * Thus 
it is that men, who lead armies, and govern 
empires, with the utmost vigour and ability, are 
in their own families often governed by their 
wives, their mistress, or their children : — That 
humoursome boy, said Themistocles, pointing to his 
infant son, governs Greece ; for he governs his 
mother, his mother governs me, I govern Athens, 
and Athens governs Greece. 

" Persons, on the contrary, of really weak 
characters, are always tenacious and opiniative 
in trifles : for, as their little vanity feels itself in- 
terested in maintaining any opinion which they 
have once advanced, the more insignificant the 
object, and the more absurd the opinion, the more 
obstinately and violently will they contend ; since 
the greater is the humiliation of confessing, and 
the shame of retracting error." « 



338 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

tf Whatever tends to exalt the soul to enthu- 
siasm, tends to melt it at the same time : whence 
tears are the ultimate effect of all very sublime 
impressions on the mind ; — as much of those of a 
joyous, as those of a melancholy cast : 

■' my plenteous joys 

Wanton in fulness, seek to hide themselves 
In drops of sorrow — 

says the benevolent Duncan, on contemplating 
the prosperity of his kingdom, and the happiness 
and filial attachment of his subjects. Every gene- 
rous, as well as every tender feeling of sympathy, 
when it reaches a certain pitch of rapture and 
enthusiasm, relieves its fulness in tears." 

The department of acting, therefore, in which 
Miss Kelly excels, is not less interesting, less at- 
tractive, or in reality less potent in the influence 
which it exercises over the heart, than the more 
daring and terror-inspiring energies of Kean; but 
she wants his experience, and the confidence that 
naturally arises out of it. A young performer can 
never be brought too frequently on the stage, an 
old one should appear as seldom as possible. If 
Kean, for instance, retired for twelve months from 
the stage, he would only return to it with renewed 
confidence. " Practice makes perfect," is an old 
saying, and once perfect the habit becomes a 
second nature to us. Kean could therefore expe- 
rience no want of confidence from appearing less 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 399 

frequently, whereas he would evidently acquire 
great, very great advantages from it. The feelings, 
blunted by continual acting, would have time to 
recover their natural sensibility and original 
powers, which, when combined with that judgment 
and experience which he already possesses, would 
lead him to the greatest height of excellence. 
How different is the case with young performers. 
What chiefly leads to their failure is want of con- 
fidence ; and confidence can only be acquired by 
appearing frequently on the stage, by making 
them familiar with their audience. Their sensi- 
bility, at the same time, stands in no danger of 
being dulled by repetition : it is as yet too green to 
feel the chilling cold of insensibility. To me it 
appears doubtful whether many have not more 
confidence in their first performance than they 
have in many of their subsequent ones, if they 
appear but seldom : for if they succeed in their 
first appearance, the trepidation of feeling that 
arises from the laudable ambition of supporting 
their acquired fame, produces a nervousness and 
restlessness of mind of which they were totally 
unconscious in their first essay ; and the more 
conscious they are of their own powers, the more 
strongly are they affected by this mental agitation, 
for it is the same sensibility that leads to excel- 
lence in dramatic action that induces this anxiety 



400 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

and trepidation of mind. Were they incapable of 
this feeling they would be equally so of that excel- 
lence which they are so ambitious of obtaining. 
This affection, however, can only be removed by 
a frequent appearance on the stage ; and if I 
mistake not, Miss Kelly would far surpass her pre- 
decessor, Miss O'Neil, if she appeared more fre- 
quently before her audience. In saying so, I am 
influenced by two motives, the one a sense of 
duty to the public, the other of duty to herself. 

Be thou the first true merit to befriend, 

His praise is lost who waits till all commend. 

But when we recommend real merit to public 
notice, whom do we serve most, the individual 
possessing it or the public ? The latter, certainly ; 
for the former promotes the happiness of thou- 
sands, while they can only make him happy in re- 
turn. It is, therefore, a duty which eveiy writer 
owes the public, to direct its attention to those 
who possess energies of mind, which, when effici- 
ently applied to their proper objects, tend either to 
promote the enjoyment of life, or improve the 
intellectual and moral faculties. When Miss Kel- 
ly first appeared at Covent Garden, in the charac- 
ter of Juliet, I went to see her, and communicated 
the result of my observations to the editor of the 
European Magazine. I cannot, therefore, give 
my opinion of her Juliet better than in the Ian- 






THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 401 

guage of the feelings which she inspired at the 
moment. I cannot, however, give it in the original 
state, as the editor omitted some parts of it. 

In the balcony scene, where Romeo first sees 
Juliet in private, she seems to be no imitator of 
the unhappy fair — she is Juliet herself — she ap- 
pears the sad victim of the passion she represents. 
When Romeo says, 

" — Alack ! there lies more peril in thine eye, 
Than twenty of their swords." 

The wistful gaze of undissembled passion ar- 
rests all her faculties. Her eyes, which in the 
latter scenes seem to wander with a heavenly 
distraction, and to be every where and no 
where, are now immoveably fixed on those of 
Romeo, and drink the delicious poison of love. 
They seem not to rest upon, but to devour their 
object. 

When she pronounces the words 

" Well, do not swear." 

her eyes, her countenance, her every feature, 
claim forgiveness for having required of him to 
swear to the fidelity of his attachment, while she 
seems, at the same time, to inhale the soft and 
enchanting intoxication of love. Her " sweet 
love, adieu," and her " good night, good night," 
were still more enchanting, more enthusiastic, 
more lovely, more infatuating. In pronouncing 
these syren exclamations, her very soul almost 

Dd 



402 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

appeared in view. It seemed to come forward 
and converse in her countenance ; and so it did, 
so far as feeling can embody the invisible, and in- 
conceivable nature of the mind. 

Her interview with the Nurse, in the second 
act, is exquisitely performed, and the mere reader 
of the play can have but a very inadequate idea 
of the beauty of this scene — her eagerness to meet 
the Nurse, whom she fondly hails as the harbinger 
of joyful news, and her exclamation, 

* f O heaven ! she comes.'* 

fills every heart with participating expectation ; 
while joy, mingled with fear and apprehension, is 
strongly pourtrayed in her countenance. Though 
joy would seem to be predominant, yet she dreads 
to become acquainted with the fearful tidings. In 
the third act, where the Nurse returns, and leads 
her to suppose that Romeo has been slain, we 
never saw, indeed we never conceived, even in idea, 
so exquisite an image of enraged innocence. When 
she cries out — 

" What devil art thou that doest torment me thus," 

the furies seemed seated on her brow : every 
feature was pregnant with rage, but yet it was 
rage without a sting. She soon expiated, however, 
the crime of becoming an infuriate j^and presented 
us with the finest picture of repentance and self- 
reproach that imagination can conceive. 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 403 

In the garden scene, in the third act, where 
she endeavours to convince Romeo that it is not 
yet day, in order to detain him, she surpasses all 
her predecessors. He, who could hear her with- 
out emotion repeat the following words, when 
Romeo is in the very act of parting from her, 
must have drank the milk of tigers in his infancy. 

" O heaven ! I have an ill-divining soul : 
Methinks I see thee, now thou'rt parting from me, 
As one dead in the bottom of a tomb ; 
Either my eye-sight fails, or thou look'st pale." 

Miss Kelly's chief excellence evidently con- 
sists in the delineation of the deeper and intenser 
passions. If we mistake not, however, her natural 
manners are of a more gay and playful character 
than those of Miss O'Neil, and consequently we 
think her more likely to succeed in comedy than 
her predecessor. Her action is natural and un- 
embarrassed : every movement seems to arise from 
the impulse of the moment, though her attitude is 
not perhaps always so imposing as Miss O'Neil's. 
The cause seems to be, that Miss O'Neil threw 
more of her own mind and intellectual conception 
of character into her action, and consequently was 
partly guided by her feelings, and partly by her 
reason ; but Miss Kelly seems not to reason at all ; 
she is the mere creature of the influences by whcih 
she is acted upem. She would seem never to have 
considered how she ought to act in any particular 



404 PHILOSOPHICAL INQUIRY INTO 

situation, but permits herself to be carried away 
instinctively by the influence which the situation 
exerts over her at the moment. What she loses, 
therefore, in dignity she gains in sweetness, artless- 
ness, and nature. There is no influence lost upon 
her, for she responds to the slightest impulse, — the 
highest excellence in dramatic representation. — 
Art and study only serve to counteract or suppress 
the divine enthusiasm of nature : the eyes no 
longer speak the eloquent language of love, no 
longer brighten with hope, or languish with de- 
spair. Every movement is marked with affectation, 
and every attitude is constrained and unnatural. 
The truth of these observations never, perhaps, 
has been more triumphantly illustrated than in the 
fair subject of the present memoir. We never saw 
the secret workings of indomitable love more 
powerfully displayed, or more ably sustained 
throughout. Her characteristic excellence seems 
to consist in giving expression to the different 
emotions, which naturally arise at the same 
instant from the opposite influences by which she 
is acted upon. A secret foreboding of her un- 
happy fate throws a browner shade over her hap- 
piest and most animated moments, so that even 
her joy seems mingled with melancholy musings. 
This is an excellence of difficult attainment, and 
Miss Kelly seems to have made it her particular 
study. She has studied it, however, only from 



THE SOURCE OF TRAGIC PLEASURE. 405 

her own feelings, for in real life, whenever human 
nature is acted upon by different influences, they 
excite that tumultuous crowd of emotions, which 
confine themselves not to the heart, but manifest 
their existence in the expression and agitation of 
the countenance. This strong tide of mingled 
emotions is not merely to be found in the action 
and expression of this lovely actress ; she seems 
to have the same command over her voice that 
she has over her passions, affections, and sympa- 
thies." 

I must now take leave of my readers. There 
are many other questions connected with the 
subject of Tragic Representations and Tragic 
Pleasure, which I intended to treat of here, miost 
of which regard the dramatic writer more 'than 
the dramatic actor, as the fable, manners, senti- 
ments, diction, unities of action, time, and pl&ce, 
&c. ; but having, since the work went to piress, 
undertaken the Editorship of the European Maga- 
zine, I find its duties render the completion o.Sf my 
intentions impossible at the moment. I shall, wow- 
ever, have frequent opportunities, through c*he 
medium of that work, of completing my original 
design. 

THE END. 



\ 

i 



D. Sidney & Co. Printers, 
Northumberland Street, Strand, 



Lately published, ly the same Author, 

A 

CRITICAL DISSERTATION 

ON THE 

NATURE AND PRINCIPLES 

OP 

TASTE. 



Natura fieret laudabile carmen an arte 
Quaesitum est : ego nee studium sine divite vena, 
Nee rude quid prosit video ingenium, alterius sic 
Altera poscit opem res, et conjurat amice. Hor. 

* »] In this volume, the various theories adopted by former writers on 
Taste > are critically examined. The Author enters into a philosophical 
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work v v M De f° ,in d to contain, in all respects, an original view of the 
subject^' both in design and execution, under the following heads : — 

1. Or 1 the nature of Taste, and wherein it differs from Sensibility, or 
the eme't'on that attends the perception of Beauty. — 2. On Beauty ab- 
stractedly considered as an object of Taste. — 3. On the Standard of 
Taste. •—4. On the Taste of particular ages and nations, and the necessity 
of studying the ancient models. — 5. On the influence of habit in matters 
of Taste. — 6. On the alliance of Taste and Criticism. — 7. On the proper 
objects of Taste. 

Elegantly printed in 8vo. price 12s. in boards. 






LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



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